


Lost and Found

by dxmichelle



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dxmichelle/pseuds/dxmichelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese thought the first numbers following Finch's rescue would be as close to a return to their normal routine as possible. Finch thought things would get better after he was rescued. Turns out they were both wrong.</p><p>Season 2 AU for Contingency and Bad Code.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While AU, There are spoilers for "Contingency" and "Bad Code" fluttering around. Just a heads up.
> 
> Bits of language and mentions of torture while in captivity. Violence is alluded to, but is not graphic (I wouldn't think...) and not directly shown. Nothing that couldn't be seen on prime time TV, so if you can watch this show normally without batting an eyelash, then you are good to go.

_05/31/2012 01:23_

**SEARCHING FOR ADMIN…**

He woke to the feeling of hot daggers piercing his spine and leg. The lights in the room were out, and there were no windows to help shed light upon his surroundings, but he could feel that he was on the floor. Or at least, he thought it was the floor. It felt like there may just be a thin blanket, or something like one, under him, but if the floor wasn't beneath it, then he was lying on the most uncomfortable mattress in the country.

Finch squeezed his eyes shut (not that it mattered; he saw the same level of darkness with them closed rather than open anyways) and furrowed his brow, trying to recall how he ended up there. Last he remembered, he was seated at a desk with several computer monitors, Root beside him, gun relaxed in hand, but still pointed in his direction.

After dumping Alicia's body from the car, she forced him onto the highway and out of the city. She finally had him pull off, after what seemed like nothing more than six hours of wasting gasoline on various freeways, at a rest area that looked like its better days were years past. He didn't remember much else of the trip beyond refueling the Lincoln. They had stopped in the small convenience store to grab something to eat before returning to the highway. He didn't see her do it, but suspected after the fact that she slipped something into his food while he was filling the gas tank, because he didn't remember finishing his meager sandwich. Instead, he woke several hours later in a hard metal chair in what looked to be an abandoned office, with Root and someone else hovering over him. He suspected hired muscle; it wouldn't be the first time she's had someone do her bidding. Finch also suspected he was just around to end up as her meat shield for whenever Reese finally caught up to them.

Finch shifted, trying to get circulation flowing in his legs; he wasn't sure how long he had been lying on his side, but immediately regretted the decision to move. Apart from having his bad leg under him, something seemed very wrong with that knee. Along with his ankles, his wrists were tightly bound. Unfortunately, his hands were behind him, so even if he was able to draw his knees closer to his chest, he couldn't assess the damage her hired help had done to his battered body.

He was starting to suspect that between falling asleep in his car and waking up here in the dark he had been collectively drugged, 'tortured' and interrogated more times than Reese in his entire four-year stint with the CIA. Then again, he had no idea how long he had been away. Root's muscle man was never present whenever she would sit down with him in front of a set of monitors and demand he give her access to the Machine, tell her how it works or where it is, or try and psych him out with a set of mind games. The first day she had let him alone, locked in the little computer room, after assuring him she could trace any plea for help he could try and send. He was able to send a partial message to Detective Fusco before Root burst in, fuming (whether it was anger towards him for getting a message out…or anger at herself, but deflected at him, for not catching his SOS fast enough, he wasn't sure). He had felt a sharp pinch in his arm and the next thing he was able to remember was waking up someplace else entirely with a large gash running down his right palm.

Root remained with him for the rest of their 'sessions' in front of a set of monitors, but after each of what seemed like several days he was drugged (the only thing Finch could fathom to explain long gaps in his memory) and by the time he woke, was shipped off to someplace new. Each time, he battled wills with Root, and he succeeded so far. Even though his long periods of defiance eventually led to some sort of injury, he was proud of being able to keep Root out of the Machine. After a while, he suspected that she was just waiting for him to be in enough of a drug-induced stupor to start unknowingly spill secrets or agree to whatever ridiculous plot she had planned. In the end, all he was truly certain of was that the continuous periods of unconsciousness just made him drowsy all the time. At least he was catching up on sleep…

A draft of cold air broke him from his thoughts. He shivered; his neck aching with every tremble. Finch tried to move again, to perhaps roll off of what he hoped was a blanket and get under it, when an agonizing shockwave shot out from his knee. He didn't try again. Even if he managed to get the blanket out from being pinned under him, he had no way of covering himself without all of his nerves going off at once. After living through that experience once, he would rather stay cold and uncomfortable than lie in agony for hours.

He suspected she was doing this on purpose.

* * *

_05/31/2012 14:43_

Finch shifted slightly in the hard metal chair, trying to undo the kink in his neck. Root had supposedly left to stock on food, leaving him alone with her gunman. The man rarely spoke; Finch wasn't even sure what his name was, if he even had one. After making sure he could reach the keyboard with his arms secured at his elbows to the chair arms, she told him she was going out for a bit, but not before mentioning that if he tried something clever, there would be hell to pay. Frankly, at this point, Finch wasn't sure what else she could do to him. His wrists were sore from being constantly tied every time he was in transit, his neck and back were constantly aching from sitting by the monitors all day, and he still wasn't quite sure what her meat shield had done to his leg, but so long as he didn't jolt it, the pain remained fairly dull. The only thing he knew about it was that he was unconscious whenever it happened – or at least, he hoped. It was either that, or that the pain was so strong and immediate he passed out within seconds – and for that he was oddly grateful.

The only times he ever truly used the keyboard she dumped in his arms was to try and send a message to Reese. Of course, he never contacted his partner directly. Root had spent hours running around a hotel with Reese, and he had no way of knowing how much information she might have cloned off of his phone while they thought she was the innocent victim of HR. He had managed to get that piece of a message to Fusco once. Other times, he attempted to send a small burst of text to his system at the Library, but he had to hope that Reese would keep going back in his absence.

He lucked out a few times, but Root insisted on moving every couple of days. At one point he managed to find time to gather his own location and then track Reese's cell phone, but he – and the two detectives – had only just found his previous whereabouts and were probably a long journey's away from his current hideout. At least they had found his car…too bad Root had abandoned it for a more commonplace sedan. If his Lincoln was too noticeable, they must be in either a poorer neighborhood or the middle of nowhere…or both.

Finch refrained from letting out a yawn. Root had been gone for some time now, and he was determined to remain as close to asleep in the chair as possible, hoping his guard would get bored and leave for a few minutes. Even on the few occasions when he was fully alert, Finch planned on keeping up looking as drowsy as possible so there was a better chance of being left alone, especially if Root was not sitting beside him, scrutinizing his every move.

He truly hoped the man would leave; keeping his neck bent as if he had fallen asleep was excruciatingly painful to maintain, when he began to hear footsteps approach from behind. Finch closed his eyes and slowed down his breathing. He heard the man stop beside him and while his eyes were closed, was able to 'see' a shadow pass over his eyelids. It lingered for a moment, and then the footsteps retreated. Finch heard the door open, close, and then the steps faded off.

Lifting his head up to ease his stiff neck, Finch peered through the reflection in the right-most monitor to make sure the meat shield wasn't lingering at the doorway. When he was certain he was alone, Finch reached out as far as his restraints would allow, and tugged the keyboard closer. With watchful glances towards the monitor giving him view of the door, he began to type.

He had been writing code for probably almost as many years as Root's been living. She may have him prisoner in the middle of who-knows-where, but he still had an ace up his sleeve.

* * *

_05/31/2012 14:48_

**FIREWALL ATTACKED.**

**EVALUATING OPTIONS…**

**IGNORE**

**ANALYZE**

**ANALYZING CODE…**

**CODE SIGNATURE IDENTIFIED: SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR**

**UPDATING FIREWALL DEFINITIONS.**

**TRACING SOURCE LOCATION…**

**LOCATION FOUND.**

**FORWARDING COORDINATES TO ASSET: REESE, JOHN…**

* * *

_05/31/2012 14:54_

He heard Root come down the hall on the other side of the door, and was glad he had finished sending his short burst of code minutes ago.

"I'm back, Harold," she said sweetly, "I hope you're in a more talkative mood than before –" she stopped halfway to the desk, noticing the monitors were no longer dark.

She slid into the seat beside Finch, "You've been busy again, I see."

His eyes glanced at her before going back to stare straight ahead.

"So what were you doing this time? Trying to find out where exactly you are? Call for help?"

"You wanted access to the Machine."

Root nodded, "Yes…I did. Are you trying to tell me you've granted me access while I was out? Excuse me for not _really_ believing you, but the last time you did anything with the computer, I had to knock you out and move someplace else."

He watched as she pulled a knife from her jacket pocket and began cutting away the ropes binding his arms to the chair.

"I hope your feet didn't go numb from sitting for so long, Harold. We're going for a little walk."

He gave her a skeptical look.

"I'm not making this up, Harold. See? No gun anywhere. No tricks, I promise. Just you and me on a little stroll."

Finch shifted in the chair, drawing his injured leg closer to his body.

Root leaned in close and whispered in his ear, "There's even a surprise for you at the end."

Finch closed his eyes for a moment, trembling slightly, remembering what had happened the last time she had mentioned a surprise.

Root smiled.

* * *

_06/01/2012 03:22_

**ERROR: ADMIN NOT FOUND.**

**SEARCHING…**

**DEVICE FOUND: 917-XXX-XXXX.**

**ACTIVATING GPS…**

**ACCESSING HIGHWAY CAM 48-N.**

**FORWARDING COORDINATES TO ASSET: REESE, JOHN…**

The first thing he noticed when he finally came around was that he was moving. It was also dark and incredibly cramped. Was he stuffed in the trunk? He surely hoped not, but then again, he had been moved numerous times since that day at the old treatment plant. Odds are he had traveled in a trunk more than once. This was probably just the first time he was actually awake to remember it.

Finch tried to move, to try to make out any of his surroundings (though it wasn't like he could see much to begin with), when his head suddenly felt like an elephant had stepped on it. Perhaps Root had finally stopped drugging him and now was resorting to physically knocking him out. He wasn't going to complain. While this was much more painful than the needle piercing his arm, at least he could think clearly again. His brain was probably the only thing he had left that she hadn't been able to injure, and the last thing he needed were drugs making it go all fuzzy half the time.

He tugged at the ropes around his wrists, but like all the times before, they were tied too tightly for him to undo. And of course, like all of the other times, his wrists were behind him. It figured. He also felt ropes around his ankles, but didn't bother trying to test their strength, assuming they were tied just as well as his wrists. Unless someone cut them loose, he would never get them off himself. Not in his current condition at any rate.

He remembered finding his cell phone on their "walk" and deliberately took a hard step on his bad leg to make a swipe for it. Finch wondered if it was still hidden away in his inner suit pocket or if Root had found it. Not that it really mattered…he would have had no way of reaching it anyway. He could feel something in his pants pocket, but couldn't tell what it was in the dark.

The car rolled over a rut in the road, sending a shockwave from his leg all the way up to his neck. Wincing, Finch tried to listen and feel what was going on outside. The car didn't seem to stop and start every few minutes, so he wasn't in an urban environment. He couldn't hear other cars go by on the road either, so wherever he was, traffic must be light. They seemed to be moving at a pretty good pace, suggesting a highway. To explain the minimal traffic, it may be early in the morning or later at night.

After a few minutes he could hear faint sirens in the background, but had no way of telling if they were coming in their direction. All of a sudden, the car slammed on the brakes, smashing his head and back into the wall of the trunk. Before he knew it, the car suddenly sped up, sending him sliding into the opposite wall.

Another siren went off, this one much closer than the last, and then the car swerved to the right.

The sirens were getting louder. The car made another sharp turn to the right and began speeding off again. After a moment, he heard what sounded like a crash, breaking glass, and felt the car being flung to the left. His head hit the trunk wall hard and everything went dark...

The police car squealed to a halt right behind the wreck. Detective Carter jumped out of the driver's seat, gun drawn as she approached the SUV that had rammed into the passenger side of the sedan.

"Is it possible for you to go one day _without_ causing a traffic accident?"

Reese glared at her as he flung open the driver's door and yanked out the man out of the vehicle he had sent spinning into the guardrail.

Fusco peered through into the rest of the car before moving towards the trunk. He saw Carter approach the front of the car out of the corner of his eye before prying the trunk open.

"Oh jeez…"

* * *

**ADMIN RECOVERED.**

**EVALUATING OPTIONS…**

**REVERT TO PREVIOUS MODE OF OPERATIONS.**

* * *

_06/01/2012 18:19_

**MONITORING TARGET: XXX-XX-0461**

**THREAT DETECTED: IRRELEVANT**

**THREAT STATUS: HIGH**

**CONTACTING ADMIN…**


	2. Chapter 2

_06/02/2012 02:34_

"Whoever's phone keeps going off – please go answer it," said Carter tiredly, "If I hear that buzz one more time…"

"It's not me," said Fusco, crashing down onto the sofa. He turned to glance at Reese. "So you finally found where he lives, huh?"

Reese paused in pacing in front of the stairs. "No. I've never been here. How'd you know about this place, Carter?"

"I visited him – well, 'Norman Burdett', to talk about the robbery at Lockup, back when you were being a pain-in-the-ass."

"Yea, well he's still a pain-in-the-ass," Fusco snorted, "How come you're always Mr. Manners to Carter and can't give a rat's ass when it comes to me?"

"Carter hasn't tried to kill me twice, Lionel."

Fusco scowled. "…You're not gonna let that go, are ya?"

"Not right now, no."

The phone chirped again.

Reese sighed. His phone only made that distinct beep when the Machine made contact with him. So far the Machine only contacted him if it found something related to Finch's whereabouts, but Finch was upstairs. The Machine had no reason to try and force him out to a payphone…

…Unless there was a new number.

The Machine had started sending him numbers the day after Finch was kidnapped. He had tried to help them in the beginning, but after a few days he wasn't able to handle the computer and field work, have Carter and Fusco help look for Finch while working cases, _and_ look for Finch on his own, so the numbers took a hit. After the first week, he stopped receiving them and was able to focus on locating Finch.

The Machine must have seen Finch rescued, and returned to churning numbers, Reese mused. He pulled out his phone. Would the Machine have been gracious enough to send the number right to his phone, or would it attempt to drag him off to the nearest payphone, and then to the Library to look up the number under the Dewey Decimal System?

His phone was silent. No new messages.

Another phone buzzed, also from Reese's pocket.

_Finch_. The Machine must be trying to contact _him_ instead. Reese dug the item out of his pocket and silenced the ringer. He wouldn't deal with it now. The Machine may have recognized that it could go back to its old forms of contact, but Finch wasn't in a state to track a new case. And Reese wasn't in the mood to go get the numbers from the usual street-corner, at least not until the doctor finished patching up his partner. Besides, the Machine erased the day's list at midnight. He still had time to get their latest case. Odds were whoever it was would not kill or be killed just yet. The window of time to stop the event would be too narrow.

They all looked up when they heard the doctor come down the steps, her large medical bag slung over her shoulder. She paused to hand a prescription sheet to Reese, nodded at the two detectives without a word, and left the safe house.

* * *

Everything hurt. He didn't have to open his eyes to figure that out. He also wasn't in the trunk anymore. Thank goodness.

Wherever he was, he was nestled in something soft…an actual bed? Root had never let him sleep comfortably before. He wasn't even tied up this time. Was this another of her tricks, to make him comfortable, after all of the damage she had done, in an attempt to get what she wanted?

He could hear movement and voices in the distance. They were muffled, perhaps on the other side of a door. He didn't dare open his eyes. Someone could still be there, watching him, ready to alert Root once he came around. There was no telling how long she would let him stay in an actual bed. He would milk this small comfort for as long as he could.

A soft jingle started to play off in the distance. Odd, he mused, that was his phone! Why would anyone be calling him? Reese, and by now Detectives Carter and Fusco, knew he had been kidnapped. Unless Root had been in contact with them through his cell phone, they would have no reason to call him. Who could it be? Unless it was a wrong number (which was highly unlikely), it had to be someone who did not know he was in this predicament.

Zoe Morgan? No… by now Reese would have told her what had happened, or she would have figured something out while visiting Caroline Turing's office. His private security? No…while he had used them the night Root attacked his system, they had never called him in the past (he always contacted them), and this would be a very odd time for them to start. The only other person he had been in contact with was Will.

_Will!_

Was Will back in New York? What if Root intercepted the call? He could be in danger now, especially if she knew about the relationship he had with Nathan in building the Machine. He did his best to fixate Will away from his father and IFT, but what if Will kept investigating after his meeting with Alicia Corwin?

The voices on the other side of the door picked up again, breaking him from his thoughts.

"You want us to stay here? We got day jobs you know."

"It's just for a few hours, Lionel. I need to check up on a…lead."

Finch let out a breath he didn't realize he was even holding. That voice was Reese…not Root. He was safe.

He shifted slightly, settling deeper into the pillows as the need for sleep called to him once more.

* * *

_06/02/2012 19:31_

The bedroom was dark when his eyes slowly fluttered open. He couldn't see clearly without his glasses, but was able to make out the dark floor-length curtains blocking out the day light. Turning his head as far as his neck allowed, he glanced around, his blurry gaze coming to rest on his glasses sitting on the nightstand. As he snaked his arm out from under the blankets to reach them, he saw thick white bandages around his palm and wrist. Ignoring the ache in his shoulder from stretching out his arm, he put on his glasses and took another look around.

He was surrounded by pillows. He felt pillows strategically placed around him for his head, neck, and back, and was that another one under his knee? Bringing his other arm out from under the bed sheets, he examined the bandages covering his wrist. Slowly, he reached up, brushing his hand against the similar wrappings around his head. He wasn't sure how long he had been unconscious, or what day it even was. The gaps in his memory were irritating.

Finch dug his elbows into the mattress and tried to prop himself into a sitting position, but stopped as he felt pain ripple down his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing. If moving only a wee bit was going to make him suffer this much, he would just have to stay put for a little while longer.

His eyes landed on the chair in front of the writing desk. The room was dark, but he was still able to make out his black pinstriped suit draped over the back of the chair. He was wearing that during his time with Root…but the last thing he could truly remember was being jostled around in a trunk. Finch tugged at the collar of his pajamas, massaging his sore neck. Whoever patched him up must have changed his clothes. Was it Reese? He hoped not. He vaguely recalled hearing Reese nearby earlier. He was, of course, extremely grateful to his partner for rescuing him from Root's clutches (…or, at least, he assumed he was safe and she hadn't captured Reese as well…), and he knew that their relationship had grown over their time working together. No longer were they the distant and wary working associates; the line was moving somewhere closer to friendship. The thought seemed strange, considering the odd-couple make up between the two of them. Regardless, no matter how close he and Reese had become, he was still uncomfortable having his partner – or anyone, for that matter – get a full view of his own 'battle scars'.

Becoming more alert the longer he stayed awake, he took another sweep around the room. It took a few minutes of staring at the décor to realize he was at what was eventually dubbed the 'Norman Burdett' house. He didn't realize his partner had managed to follow him to this address before. While he had several houses across the city to be used as safe houses, and several others just for him, this wasn't one of his private residences that he frequented. He did rotate around in going 'home', but after Detective Carter came to associate this townhouse as belonging to Norman Burdett, he took a greater interest in avoiding it. At the time, the last thing he needed was her coming around to ask more questions about Reese.

Of course – Detective Carter must have been involved with his rescue and had him brought here. Reese would probably have assumed any safe houses he knew about may have been compromised by Root (even though he changed the security codes to all of his homes on a regular basis), and the only other one they all knew about was the one where they had stashed away the Mafia Dons from Elias. Finch frowned, his eyes darting to the closed bedroom door. …How did they get into the townhouse without the access code?

Finch sighed, leaning back into his pillows. He would have to worry about that once he could talk to Reese. He also wished he had a laptop nearby. He had a sneaking suspicion Reese was going to keep him put until he fully recovered (perhaps it was only fair – he did the same to Reese, with somewhat measure of success, after he was shot that night in the parking garage). However, if he was going to be stuck in bed for some time, he at least wanted something to do other than sleep. After his accident, under the watchful eye of a well -paid, in-home physician, he had remained bedridden with nothing but his books for pastime (even though most of his free time had been spent sleeping off his medication). Now, he was in a similar yet not-as-severe predicament, only there were no books within his reach….

* * *

_06/04/2012 19:41_

**MONITORING CELL PHONE: 917-XXX-XXXX**

" _Is it done?"_

" _Yea…but there's a complication…there was a witness."_

" _I thought I told you –"_

" _Yea, well some lady turned the corner at the last minute."_

" _Did she see you?"_

" _I don't think so – I mean, we didn't get a good look at her face either. It's possible she saw us."_

" _That's bad news for you if she did and talks to the cops. We barely got away last time. I'm not taking the rap because your team screws up. Tie up the loose ends."_

**THREAT DETECTED: IRRELEVANT**

**ACCESSING ARCHIVED SECURITY FOOTAGE…**

He was roused out of sleep by the soft tapping of fingers on a keyboard…and his own breathing, which sounded congested and sniffle-ridden. Great, now he was sick. His eyes opened to the blurry ceiling fan spinning slowly around. Someone must have removed his glasses again…or did he before going back to sleep? He couldn't remember. He didn't even recall falling back to sleep, but it must have happened at some point. The daylight that was earlier blocked out by the dark drapes was gone. It was either that night, in the wee hours of the following morning, or he had been out for far longer than he thought.

He wasn't even moving and his neck was aching terribly. There was also something sitting on his forehead. Weird. He didn't remember that being there when he last woke. Unable to turn his head, he couldn't see who else was in the room with him, but they were still tapping away at the keys.

Finch stretched his arm out to reach for his glasses, but couldn't get to them. Someone must have moved him into the middle of the king-size bed. He suddenly felt very tiny, walled in by pillows in a bed in which he couldn't even reach the edge without hurting.

He sniffled again. The typing ceased.

"Oh! You're awake!"

He froze. He knew that voice, and it sure wasn't Reese…. She was nothing but a blur to him as she approached the edge of the bed, but he was sure she was grinning at him.

"You've been asleep for a while, Harold. I was beginning to worry about you." Root sat on the edge of the bed. Despite the pain shooting up his arms by leveraging himself up, he tried shifting away from her. Before he could really get anywhere, she slid closer to him, putting a hand on his chest, pushing him back down, and pressed the barrel of her gun against his injured leg. "Going somewhere, Harold? Don't be silly. You can't walk, remember?"

He really wished he had his glasses. "H-how…?"

"How did I find you?" Root smiled. "You didn't think I'd _really_ let you keep your phone, did you? I've been tracking you ever since I lost contact with my friend on the highway. I was pretty upset too. I waited for an hour at our rendezvous point, but he never showed up. At first I thought there was a traffic accident or something, but he didn't answer his cell phone when I called. And wouldn't you know it, but there _was_ a traffic accident! You know, John should really stop wrecking cars."

He saw her reach into her bag and pull out something shaped similarly to a needle.

"I'm sorry, Harold, but I'm running a little impatient. For two weeks, I wasn't able to get _anything_ out of you. And, well…that was me being nice. But not this time. _Now_ , you're going to give me what I want, whether you want to or not. And I've got a new helper with me too."

A tall, bulky-looking blur came into his field of view, passing around to the opposite side of the bed.

He heard a new voice, but he didn't see anyone. _"Finch…"_ It sounded familiar….

He blurrily saw her do something with the needle, and then felt two strong arms pinning him down. He struggled, but the jerky movements only brought more pain.

" _Finch!"_ The mysterious voice was back, sounding awfully distant.

"Don't worry, Harold," Root smiled, "This will only hurt for a moment…"

" _HAROLD!_ "

Finch's eyes flew open as he shot up into a sitting position – or, at least, he tried to, but a pair of strong arms pushed him gently back into the pillows supporting his back. He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut again as the sudden movement set off what felt like all of the nerves along his spine. He reached out, grabbing for anything, got hold of what felt like a suit, and tried pushing it away but the person wearing it didn't budge.

"Finch, _Finch!_ _Stop_ , it's alright…"

"John, what the –" That voice sounded like Carter, but how could that be?

He thought he had heard footsteps and frantic voices, but he didn't care. It sounded like Reese and Detective Carter talking…but that _had_ be a hallucination of whatever Root was doing to him. He didn't register the short words exchanged between them. Struggling against the man holding him down wasn't working, but he kept at it anyway, ignoring his screaming back as best he could. He was obviously not a physical threat to Root, why wouldn't the man let go and leave him alone?

He felt his glasses being placed on his nose, but didn't bother opening his eyes. He didn't want to see Root's triumphant grin or the sheer size of her new minion. He had no doubt this one would also end up facing Reese's wrath…and for a fleeting second wondered what had happened to the first guy.

His arms were growing tired. It didn't matter anymore…he just wanted to escape. To flee. Forget Root and her plot to control the Machine ('Set it free'? Ha...). Forget the Machine, the numbers. Thanks to his own instruction, he was all alone. And no one was coming to save him….

The hands holding him down left, but he didn't feel Root stick him with the needle. What was she waiting for? The man pinning him backed away, letting the hands clenching his suit like a lifeline drop back onto the blanket.

Finch opened his eyes slowly, trying to return his heart-rate back to normal. He was lying on his side – did that happen during his struggle? Wincing, he turned and settled on his back, gasping at the pain shooting out of his knee as he moved. He looked back where Root had been standing, but she wasn't there, and neither was the 'helper' she had mentioned. In her place was Reese, and further back, near the bedroom door, Detectives Carter and Fusco, both with worried looks on their faces.

"…Mr. Reese?" His voice sounded shaky and ragged; perhaps he really _was_ sick.

"It's alright, Finch. You're safe now. She's not here."

Finch closed his eyes. _It was all a dream…_

"Sorry if I, eh…startled you – didn't want you to reinjure yourself. You've been running a fever for the past couple of days," said Reese. So _that_ was why he felt absolutely miserable!

Finch tried to sit up again, but Reese put a hand gently on his shoulder, "Just take it easy, Finch. Your left side took a beating. You've got a minor fracture in your knee and your ankle is sprained so you won't be able to walk for a while." He took a quick glance behind towards Carter and Fusco before turning back to his partner, "I'll explain everything after you've rested up. Doctor doesn't want you moving too much." He glanced at his watch, and then picked up the pill bottles from the nightstand. "These should bring down your fever, and these will help with the pain and let you sleep for a while."

" _I can tell I won't be getting much out of you now, Harold. I see you're tired…so_ this _will help you sleep for a few hours, and when you wake up, we can talk!"_

" _I hate to have to do this to you, Harold, but we need to move again. And since I can't trust you not to get any funny ideas in your head…"_

" _I hope you had a nice nap, Harold. Try that again, and you won't have a nice rest like that again…"_

Finch shuddered, shaking his head, trying to clear Root's voice from his mind. He leaned away from Reese's outstretched hand. "I-If you don't mind, Mr. Reese," he said quietly, "I'd prefer _not_ to be drugged again."

They stared unblinking at each other for a moment before Reese sighed, "All right. But you're staying put."

Root's words from his dream played out in his head again. "Mr. Reese!" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

His partner turned back. "Yea Finch?"

"What happened to my phone?"

"I destroyed it not long after we found you…just in case."

* * *

_06/05/2012 12:35_

**MONITORING CELL PHONE: 917-XXX-XXXX**

**ACTIVATING MICROPHONE…**

" _We're sorry…the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service…"_

"What the…"

**DIALING…202-XXX-XXXX**

"… _Universal Heritage Insurance, Harold Wren's office. Marcy Graveds speaking."_

" _Hi, I'm calling for Harold Wren?"_

" _I'm sorry, but Mr. Wren is away on medical leave..."_

* * *

_06/05/2012 20:26_

He took a deep breath as he woke. His nose didn't seem stuffed up anymore; that was a plus, although he still felt pretty terrible. The light was on in the corner by the desk. It must be sometime at night. Finch reached over for his glasses and was relieved his back wasn't aching as much anymore.

There was a laptop on the desk, but no one was in the room with him. From his vantage point, he couldn't make out what was on the screen, but could tell the computer wasn't his. …Was it Root's? Was this another dream? Did she find him?

He heard footsteps come down the hall and the door pushed open. "I thought you'd be up soon," said Fusco. A garment bag was draped over his arm. "Where do you want this?"

Finch blinked. Why was Detective Fusco here? "What is it?" He cringed at how hoarse his voice sounded.

"Your suit. Wonder Boy had it cleaned while you were busy playing Sleeping Beauty." He eyed Finch for a moment, and then draped the bag over the chair. "I'll leave it here. When your friend decides to let you get outta bed, you can put it where you want." He watched as Finch tried to sit up, and moved to place a spare pillow behind his back for support. "Better?"

Finch nodded slightly, then looked at Fusco curiously, "Detective, forgive me for being blunt, but why are you here?"

"Our mutual friend didn't you want you to end up vanishing again."

"I don't need a babysitter, Detective."

Fusco shrugged. "Yea, well, after your friend took out an entire gang without breaking a sweat, I stopped arguing too much with him about things that involve you."

Finch shifted slightly. He would have to have a talk with Reese about just what had gone on while he was missing. For starters, how they even found him, since all of his signals for help always came through too late.

He glanced over as Fusco swore at his laptop. "I take it technology is not your friend tonight, Detective…."

"Can't get a signal in this place, and the neighbors wifi just went out. Again. You know, if your friend is gonna keep me here 'til he gets back, he might as well make it so I can write my reports."

"And where, exactly, _is_ Mr. Reese?"

"Off on some stakeout with Carter. Whoever the secret psychic is that gives him his intel pointed him to Jason Marone. He's some lousy banker on Wall Street. He wanted me to find some dirt on this guy, but that plan's obviously shot to hell."

Finch glanced at Fusco's laptop for a moment, "Detective…how long has it been since –"

"Since we found you in the middle of nowhere? I dunno, four, five days maybe? Carter remembered this spot from who knows how long ago. Nice place by the way..."

Finch raised an eyebrow at him, "Are you looking to get a one-up on Mr. Reese, Detective?"

"What're you talkin' about?"

"The answer to your unasked question is yes. I live here. _Sometimes_."

Fusco stared at him.

"I haven't been blind to the fact that you have been digging into my life, Detective. I've been aware of your – and Mr. Reese's – 'quest' to find where I call home for months now. Mr. Reese, as far as I know, has stopped several weeks ago. I _strongly recommend_ you refrain from invading my privacy in the future.

"Now…how long has Mr. Reese been dealing with this new case?"

"Just got it today. Last couple of days was some average Joe who witnessed a murder on Pearl Street. After some timely intervention from your trigger-happy friend, he helped put away the thugs."

"So now it's Mr. Marone?"

"Yea, though if your friend wants some beef on this guy, he's gonna have to wait a while."

"Not exactly, Detective." Finch sighed, starting to push the blankets back.

"Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?" Fusco jumped up and replaced the covers, "You do remember you're supposed to be sick and immobilized, right?"

"There is a laptop in the bookcase cabinet downstairs that will make searching for Mr. Marone much easier."

"Yea, well, there's a lousy laptop right here, and in case you've forgotten, you're in no shape to go climbing steps, or even walk for that matter, and it's _my_ ass on the line if you bust up the glue holding you together."

"Then you have a decision to make, Detective. Mr. Reese will need our help with this case, and I have work to do. So either you go down and get the laptop for me, or explain to Mr. Reese when he returns why the glue didn't stick."

* * *

Carter sighed. "What are we doing here, John?"

"Looking out for Jason Marone."

Carter fiddled with the straw on her soda. "I thought this was a gratitude drink. And who's Jason Marone?"

Reese smirked. "It is." He glanced beyond Carter to the lone man sitting at the bar. "Mr. Marone is a banker who may have gotten himself in hot water."

Carter followed his eyes, turning around in the booth. "That's him?"

"Yep."

She sighed, "Anything else you know about him, like why he might be in trouble?"

Reese picked up his phone. "Maybe by now Fusco will have something…"

The phone rang twice. " _Yea, Fusco."_

"How's it going, Lionel?"

" _Let me tell ya, there's_ nothing _as exciting as babysitting our mutual friend, 'specially when he's not in a mood to be babysat."_

"How is Finch doing?"

There was some noise on the other end of the line. _"I'm here, Mr. Reese…and as far as I can tell, Mr. Marone leads a carefully-managed life. Goes to work every day, and stops at the same bar on the way home every night. I haven't found anything on the social networking sites to indicate he's some sort of threat."_

Reese sighed, "Finch, what are you doing?"

" _Working, Mr. Reese. Are you up on his phone?"_

"About to be…and I thought I told you to get some rest."

" _I believe your exact words were to 'stay put'. Detective Fusco can attest that I haven't gotten out of bed once."_

Reese closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. He should have realized Finch would have computers at his safe houses, just in case.

"… _I'll continue looking into Mr. Marone's finances…and Mr. Reese – we need to talk the next time you return._ " The line clicked.

"So what happened?" Carter sipped her soda, keeping an occasional glance back at their person of interest.

Reese smirked, "Finch is being, well, Finch. Nothing extraordinary yet on our guy, but he's digging, so we should have something soon."

She gave him a hard look. "Are you ever gonna tell me how you get your information?"

"Nope. You can always try asking Finch." Reese sipped his drink, knowing she'd never get an answer out of his partner no matter how hard she tried.

* * *

It was a nice night to stroll through the park. The sun hadn't set yet, but the lamps were just starting to turn on. Couples were walking hand-in-hand; there were some sitting on the lawns enjoying the near-summer air, and others sitting on benches watching the sunset. He walked past a small coffee stand, hearing someone call out an order for tea. He kept walking. Coffee would have been nice, and the aromas coming from the stand were appetizing, but it was too late for caffeine. Instead he stopped at a frozen yogurt stand. Abroad, he hadn't had the ability to have any, so this was making up for months without his chocolate-chip cookie-dough cone.

Someone to his right caught his eye. A woman sitting on a bench was staring off in his direction. She was looking at him, but she seemed to be off in her own world. An easel was set up next to her and the brush was lax in her hand.

"Are you okay?" he asked, walking over.

She jumped. "Oh! Was I staring? Sorry!" she smiled sheepishly, "I was just…reminiscing."

He nodded, sitting on the bench next to her, "Good memories?"

She nodded, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, "Yea…it was your ice cream actually that took me back."

He grinned, "Well, I've always had fond memories when it came to ice cream. Well…actually, except that one time my dad got me to try pistachio. Yuck."

"You don't like pistachio? It's delicious!"

"Not a fan of nuts." He lifted his cone, "I'll take cookie dough over pistachio any day."

She laughed, "I love cookie dough. My fiancé, however, was never a fan of it…or pistachio. So long as there was plain old vanilla, he was happy. We would always have two tubs in the freezer, a vanilla for him, and whatever flavor I was into at the time."

"Sounds good," he nodded, "You can never go wrong with lots of ice cream."

"Except maybe in February. I don't think I'd want a lot of ice cream in my freezer when it's below freezing outside."

"You've got a point there," he looked over at the easel. "What are you working on?"

"Well, I _was_ going to capture the sunset over the city, but now I'm doing whatever pops in my head…and at the moment it seems to be seascapes!"

"Well, it's awesome. I envy you. My artistic abilities don't range beyond stick figures."

"Well thank you! But you can be good at anything if you work at it long enough. Like take me – I've been painting ever since kindergarten."

"Really?"

"Yep! I think I was the most enthusiastic in my class to finger paint. The rest of them didn't want to get their hands messy. I was all for it!"

He chuckled, then looked around the park. "Are you here painting all the time?"

"I try to, so long as the weather's nice. I'll even sit out here and sketch in the middle of winter so long as it's not snowing or anything. Do you come walking through here a lot? I usually see a lot of the same faces, but you're a new one."

He grinned, "Well I've been abroad for a while. Just got back in town yesterday."

"Cool! Thinking of sticking around for a while?"

"Eh, here right now, or in general?"

"Um, both actually," she laughed nervously. "Not many people come up to me while I'm painting, and you are definitely the nicest stranger I've gotten to talk with all day…I would say all week, but it's only Tuesday."

"You don't mind me sitting here watching you work? Wouldn't be kind of awkward?"

"Not really. I'm used to it. A couple of years ago I used to do cartoons for children's magazines, so mothers would come up asking me to do caricatures for their kids. If _anything_ is awkward, it's a mother watching your hand sketch out their children's faces and critiquing because the nose was too skinny or the ears were misaligned. So don't worry, you're fine."

"Yea, I'd imagine that would get pretty crazy…oh! Sorry, I didn't really introduce myself. All this time I've been sitting here, you must think I'm 'the dude with an ice-cream cone'." He held out his hand. "I'm Will."

She smiled, shaking his hand. "Grace." Withdrawing her hand, she gasped, "Oh, I'm so sorry! I should have checked to make sure I wasn't covered…"

Will looked down, confused, to see his hand was now sporting blue and green splotches. He laughed, "Eh, don't worry about it. My hands have been coated in worse stuff than paint."

"No, really, let me clean that off for you." She went digging in her bag. "I have a rag in here somewhere…."

As he let her fuss over his hand, neither of them saw the man snapping pictures of them from a bench across the park.


	3. Chapter 3

She had found the car empty; the trunk popped. There was no sign of either of the two passengers, but the airbags in the front of the car had been deployed. The car had slammed into the highway guardrail, but something had also smashed into driver's side of the car. An abandoned SUV was nearby that had also taken some damage, though none quite as extensive as the totaled sedan. When she had looked into the driver's side of the smaller car, all she found was a broken cell phone.

There was blood in the trunk. Not a lot, but it someone looked hard enough at the dark material lining the space, it was visible. It would have to be cleaned; she couldn't afford to leave traces.

After finally making it back to New York, she checked into a luxury hotel near Times Square. Opening her laptop she quickly accessed the hotel's wi-fi and began the long and tedious search to find another piece of that elegant code….

* * *

Reese returned to the townhouse after tailing Marone home. Carter had gone home not long after his phone conversation with Finch, and Marone had left the bar soon after. So far, there was nothing out of the ordinary with their newest number. However, Finch never called back after deciding to look into Marone's finances, so he and Carter had spent the past hour listening to Marone chat with the bartender. The most they were able to get from the conversation was that he was a regular customer and had one hell of a day at the office.

The front door opened just as he bounded up the steps. Reese passed Fusco in the doorway and stepped towards the stairs. "How is he, Lionel?"

"Moody as all hell." Fusco closed the door and immediately heard the heavy lock automatically click. "Kicked me out of the room after he got off the phone with you."

Reese heard Fusco follow after him as he climbed the steps and opened the bedroom door. "Did he keep looking into Mr. Marone's finances?" He didn't wait for Fusco to respond and instead walked into the room.

Finch must have fallen asleep while digging into Marone's background. His glasses were still on, and his laptop was balanced precariously on his right leg. Careful not to disturb his partner, he reached over, removed his glasses and placed them on the bedside table. Reese picked up the laptop and placed it on the desk. Finch must have been doing a search for something; the open window on the screen had lines of code across the top with various information tables poking out from underneath. Reese sighed. He would have to ask Finch later what he had found. In the meantime, he had followed Marone home. Their Number talked with his wife and played with his son; it was only after the family had gone to bed did Reese return to the townhouse.

A quick glance at the bottles on the bedside table answered his next unasked question: Finch hadn't touched his medicine. Reese frowned, placing a hand on Finch's forehead. If his fever got any worse, he would have to go to the hospital. Grabbing a cloth from the nightstand, he dabbed away the sweat on Finch's brow.

"As far as I know, he didn't take any of those," said Fusco, as he shoved his hands in his pockets. "That broad must have done a real number on him for him to be out this long. I sat there all day doing paperwork after calling in sick for you – which, by the way, I am _not_ doing tomorrow, it's Carter's turn – and he hadn't moved an inch until tonight." He stepped closer to Reese, and lowered his voice, as if Finch would hear him in his sleep. "He sounded terrible earlier. Like he couldn't breathe. I tried to prop him up better, and it went away. Sort of. You know, he should probably be looked at by a doctor. Or be in a hospital."

"Finch can't go to a hospital. It's too dangerous."

Fusco shrugged. "Just my two cents. You staying here with him tonight? Good. I'm headin' home. And before you ask, yes, I'll make sure I'm not followed off the block."

Reese nodded, watching Fusco leave the room. After hearing the heavy front door lock click, he picked up one of the medicine bottles, looked at it, then at Finch, and again at the bottle.

"Sorry Finch," he said quietly, "It's for your own good."

* * *

_05/21/2012 18:12_

_His eyes opened slowly, the drugs finally wearing off. He was moving down a hall in a wheelchair. Was this how she transported him from place to place, blending him into the public when it was needed by making him look like a disabled relative?_

_His vision focused on the line of doors they passed, as well as the red and purple spotted carpet he was rolling across. Each door was numbered; this was either a hotel or a nice apartment building._

" _I hope you had a nice nap, Harold," she said sweetly from behind. "You missed most of the drive, but not to worry, nothing truly of interest occurred on the way here."_

_She stopped his chair at the end of the hall and inserted the key card into the door. "We'll be here for the night and then tomorrow we'll rendezvous with my friend again."_

_He looked around the room as she pushed him inside. It was a large room, with two large beds along one wall. A table and two chairs sat in the corner near a mini fridge and coffee maker, and a large flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall above the dresser._

" _Can I remind you of our deal?" She stopped the chair next to one of the beds and walked around to stand in front of him and bent down to his eye level. "I'll let you walk around and stretch your legs, so long as you stay in this hotel room. But try in_ any way _to escape or call for help, and innocent people will get hurt. Understand?"_

_He nodded numbly, his foggy brain only registering maybe half of what she was saying._

_She smiled brightly. "Great! I'm going to go down to the front desk and get some things brought up for us, and we'll get something to eat soon. I know you must be famished by now."_

_He watched her head back to the door when she turned to him once more. "Oh…and before I forget, I_ will _know if you decide to make a call with that phone on the nightstand. Don't try anything clever. I'd hate to have to hurt one of the housekeepers." With another smile, she left the room, the lock clicking as the door swung shut._

 _With a groan, he heaved himself out of the wheelchair. His leg was awfully stiff. How long_ was _that car ride?_

_Finch limped over to the window and peered around the curtain. Wherever he was, it was in a city or busy downtown. He doubted they were back in New York, but there was plenty of foot and car traffic down below. The buildings looked well-kept, but from his height he could also see that a few blocks off were in not as good of shape._

_Turning, he took a seat in the chair nearest the window, wincing. His eyes wandered to the phone on the nightstand between the two beds, his mind churning around the possibility of asking the front desk to send up an extra pillow for his knee. Surely Root wouldn't find any ulterior motive in it. He was in a hotel, a request like that was probably commonplace. He at least would then be able to relax comfortably until she returned…_

_Finch made his way to the phone. He paused, his hand hovering just over the receiver. He wasn't even sure what room he was in to have something brought up. His mind was still a bit foggy when they were going down the hall; it never occurred to him to glance at the room number. Surely it wouldn't be difficult for the employee to figure out what room he was in, he doubted many men in a wheelchair with his basic description came and went through the lobby today. But was it worth the risk?_

_Mulling it over, he didn't even hear Root return until she was right next to him. She grabbed his wrist and tugged it away from the phone._

" _What were you doing, Harold?" With her free hand, she pulled out her cell. No alerts from using the hotel phone. She pulled him to his feet and dragged him over to the chair in the corner. In the corner of her eye, she noticed he was limping heavier on his left leg. "I thought I told you no tricks."_

_Finch stifled a groan as she deposited him in the chair. "I didn't call anyone."_

_She bent down again to his eye level, "But you were going to, weren't you? I warned you what would happen if you tried to get away."_

_Finch swallowed. "I wasn't trying to."_

_Root tilted her head to the side. "Oh? Then what were you doing?"_

_He opened his mouth, paused a moment, then closed it. He turned his head as far from her as it could go without hurting. "It doesn't matter, I didn't do anything."_

_She gave him a hard look for a moment before smiling, patting his shoulder gently. "I know. It's alright, Harold. You're tired, and probably still a little woozy, but don't worry, that should pass in a little bit." Straightening, she placed her bag on one of the beds and began rummaging through it. "I spoke to the kind man at the front desk. He was very concerned how the airline lost our luggage and is having some spare toiletries brought up for us. Isn't that sweet? You'll be able to shower and clean up tonight before we continue on to the next stage of our adventure."_

" _Is that the only lie you've told today?"_

_She paused in searching through the bag, smiling at him, "Sort of." Walking up to him, she deposited a pair of pajamas into his lap. "I told the 24hour dry cleaner the same story, so tonight we can at least clean your suit! I know it must be hard for you to not be able to change for so long, so tonight we'll get that cleaned and it'll be ready for you tomorrow!"_

_He raised an eyebrow at her._

" _And before you ask, no, I did not have to blackmail or threaten anyone this time. Some people are just enamored with a pretty face and a tragic story." Root pulled the other chair out and parked it right next to Finch. "Ready to have that talk now?"_

_Finch stiffened. Straightening up even more in his seat, he looked her in the eye. "I don't know. Are we? It seems every time you want to have a conversation we end up on the road."_

_Root shrugged, "It's just a precaution, Harold. We can't have your trigger-happy friend spoiling the fun before it even starts. Besides, we haven't even made it to our goal destination!"_

" _Are you going to tell me where it is we are going?"_

_Root smiled at him. "The future, Harold…though, thanks to you, we are already there, aren't we?"_

" _If my memory serves, we had this conversation before."_

" _You're right," she said, "We did. At a diner. But perhaps you'll be more talkative this time. There are no policemen nearby to distract you either."_

_He glared at her from the corner of his eye. "In case I didn't make this clear the last time, I have no way of accessing the Machine. I made sure of that."_

_Root patted his arm gently. "Every system has a flaw, and like I told you back in Delaware, I'm awfully good at finding them. So either you just tell or show me what I want to know, or I'll have to just pick apart your Machine bit by bit until I get what I want." She sighed, "I'd recognize your code anywhere, Harold. Unlike other people who make sloppy, flawed programs…your code is so…elegant."_

" _Then let it be."_

" _I told you – I don't want to control your Machine!"_

 _He shifted slightly to face her again. "No. You want to 'set it free'. I don't know how you plan on pulling that off, but I_ will not _help you."_

_The smile on her face faltered for a moment, and then Root stood back up. "You're exhausted, and I'm starving. I'm sure you'll be in more of a cooperative mood once you can relax and have something to eat." She walked over to the door and then looked back at Finch. "What should I order for you? Actually, don't worry about that, I'll just pick something out for you. I'm going to go downstairs to the restaurant, place an order and check on when our things will arrive from the front desk. Don't try anything, now."_

_Finch watched the door slam shut behind her. Root hadn't tied him down; he could walk out of the room and down to the outside if he really wanted. She took his phone, but not the bit of cash he kept on him. He could duck into a nearby shop and ask to use their phone to dial Reese, or at least figure out a way to get back to New York._

_But perhaps Root had done that on purpose, he mused; pretended to give him a small bit of freedom while watching his every move. She was a skilled hacker, so it wouldn't be difficult for her to tap into the hotel security cameras._

_A reflective glint near his shoe caught his eye and he glanced down to find a blinking metal cuff around his right ankle. When did that get there…?_

… _Root returned to the room with a bag of toiletries over one arm and two to-go meals from the restaurant in the other. She paused for a moment, looking around the seemingly empty room until spying the closed bathroom door with light peeking out from under the gap between the door and the floor. With a smile and sigh of relief, she set her bags down on the little table. "I'm back, Harold," she said cheerfully, "And I brought you some dinner. I hope you're in the mood for salad!"_

_Finch limped stiffly out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel sitting on the sink counter beside the door and moved away from the food container waiting for him at the table. "I'm not hungry." He could feel the beginnings of a headache forming._

" _Well, considering I_ barely _got you to eat those scrambled eggs this morning and you really didn't eat much yesterday, I would think you're famished! Since you haven't eaten much, I got you something light. At least have a little bit now, while the grilled chicken is still warm!"_

_Finch sat on his bed, and didn't bother to hide the pained look on his face when he swung his leg out in front of him as he leaned back into the pillows. "I'm not hungry."_

_Root dropped her fork into her own salad, got up and walked over to stand right next to Finch, who leaned away from her as she approached. "You can only delay the inevitable so far. You're going to have to eat sometime, you know. Can't have you turning into skin and bones, Harold!"_

_Finch closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he turned to look back at her, pleadingly. "Please. Just let me be."_

_Root perched herself on the edge of the bed. "Who were you going to call, Harold?"_

_He sighed, "No one."_

_She smiled sadly at him, and reached over and patted his left knee gently, not missing the wince he tried to hide every time she touched him. "Alright. Why don't you go get cleaned up and change, and I won't bother you for the rest of the night."_

_With one last pat to his knee, she got up and went back to her dinner._

_Finch glanced down at his ankle. "Am I supposed to wear that in the shower?"_

" _Hm? – Oh! Don't worry, Harold, it's waterproof."_

_He sighed._

_She was waiting patiently for him when he emerged from the bathroom, her arm outstretched. "I'm glad those pajamas fit you." She smiled, adjusting the collar on his shirt and looking him over. "The pants look a bit long, but you work with what you got!"_

_He hesitated as she gestured to her waiting arm._

" _Don't worry, Harold. I'm just taking your suit to be cleaned. You'll get it back, I promise! I wouldn't make you go out in public in sleep clothes, I'm not_ that _cruel!"_

_He gave her a hard look before handing the clothes over._

" _Thanks, Harold! I'm going to call the front desk to have them bring someone to take this, and then we can relax for the rest of the evening! While you were showering, I put your salad in the fridge. If you get hungry later, you can have it."_

_He brushed past her, limping back to his bed and froze. Sitting atop the pristinely-arranged sheets were two extra pillows._

_Finch didn't even hear her come up behind him, but shuddered as he felt her breath on the side of his face when she whispered in his ear, "You're welcome."_

* * *

He shifted, drawing a ragged breath as he tried to slide a bit further under the blankets. His back was beginning to ache from staying still for so long. Bracing his good leg into the mattress, he managed to flip himself onto his side. The movement caused him to raise his left leg off of its pillow probably for the first time in a while, and he was now coming to realize what a bad move turning over might have been. His knee was aching horribly, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the injury or because he had jostled it after days of staying still and it was just stiff. His neck also felt like someone had pinched it, but perhaps that was also from lack of movement.

"Morning, Finch," said Reese, walking around to the other side of the bed and sitting in the chair beside it.

"Is it really?" Finch mumbled, his eyes still closed, "I was trying to sleep, Mr. Reese."

"I know. But you seem to start tossing when you're about to wake up so..."

Finch opened his eyes and stared blurrily sideways in the dark at Reese. "I imagine you could find better ways of occupying your time than watching me sleep, which, by the way, I ask you not to continue doing."

"I know, Finch, you're a private person. I was just making sure you didn't get any worse. Your fever was pretty terrible last night."

Finch rolled over onto his back again. "I suppose I should thank you then for the prick in my neck."

"If your fever broke, then I suppose you should," said Reese. "It was either that or I'd have to take you to the hospital, and that might have raised several questions better left unasked."

"Indeed," Finch muttered.

"Are you hungry?"

Finch blinked, craning his neck over as far as it would go. "I beg your pardon?"

"Are you hungry?" Reese repeated. "You haven't really eaten much of anything since you got back. Other than now I've actually only seen you awake once."

" _Can't have you turning into skin and bones, Harold!"_

"I suppose I should eat…," he said quietly, trying to shake her voice from his mind.

Reese stood up, "I'll go make you something."

Once Reese was out of the room, Finch heaved himself into a sitting position. Grabbing his glasses off of the bedside table, he leaned back, supported by the mound of pillows behind him (he had a sneaking suspicion that every time he went to sleep, extra pillows showed up on the bed for him), and looked around once more.

The dark drapes were still drawn; if Reese hadn't mentioned that it was morning, he probably wouldn't have known what time of day it was. His laptop was on the desk – that's right, he was researching something on it. He would have to ask Mr. Reese what had happened with tailing the new Number, unless…he had been asleep for far longer than he thought and that case was already wrapped up.

Two medicine bottles sat next to where his glasses had been on the bedside table, along with what looked to be a business card. Finch reached over and squinted at the words in the dark. It was the card he gave to Reese with his new apartment address on it, the front of the card listing the work address and phone of Harold Wren. Why was this here?

He stared back at the laptop a moment longer. He hadn't gotten up to place it on the desk, which means someone else did, and he didn't remember seeing anyone come into his room while he was digging into Mr. Marone's financials. Did he even finish his research? These spans of unaccounted memory were really becoming a nuisance.

His cleaned suit was still draped over the chair. As much as he didn't want to see it again (thank goodness it was hiding in a garment bag, he didn't need anything else to trigger memories of his time in captivity), he wished to get out of this new, albeit much more comfortable, prison. He could deal with pain in his leg, by now it was unfortunately second nature to him, but Reese's and the detectives' constant hovering he could do without. Was Root still considered such an immediate threat that Reese wouldn't leave him to rest on his own? He frowned. If this continued for much longer he would have to go through the house and make sure any last personal touches that have been scattered and squirreled away were packed, sent off, and then he would have to sell the place. It had been days since he was rescued, and the front door had probably taken more foot traffic since his return than probably the entire year to date. All they would need is for Root to decide to track any of the three of them. They would lead her right to him without even knowing it….

A sudden panic wormed its way to the front of his mind. What if that was she _was_ doing? Could she be following Reese? No…he knew her face, and would probably hone in on being followed. But what about Detectives Carter or Fusco? Reese certainly had them check in often enough. Root was smart; it wouldn't be hard for her to put two and two together on why they were frequenting an address that was neither of their apartments. What if she was on her way now, just waiting for Reese to step out the door to strike? He would be completely defenseless, just as before when she startled him by shooting Alicia Corwin. Sleepy, pain-ridden, and practically immobile, he would be at her mercy. Even if she got close enough for him to poke her in the eyes, what would he do then?

Finch nearly jumped a foot in the air when the door opened again. He gave a silent sigh of relief, and tried to get his heart back down to a normal pace. It was only Reese.

"Here you are," said Reese, walking back into the bedroom, expertly balancing a tray in one hand while switching on a small lamp with the other. "It's not the Lyric Diner's size breakfast, but it should be enough for you for now."

Finch swallowed and cleared his throat. "That's quite alright, Mr. Reese," he said quietly, "I doubt I'd be able to eat much right now anyhow."

Reese set the tray of scrambled eggs and toast on Finch's lap, his eyes analyzing. "You alright, Harold?"

_Well, Mr. Reese, I was kidnapped by a madwoman, driven all over the east coast, drugged, tortured over the whereabouts and mechanics of a top-secret supercomputer, and forced to witness murder, all in a span of two weeks. Of course I'm not alright!_

"…It's nothing. You startled me, that's all."

Reese noticed the business card in Finch's hand. "I know you keep up on that identity, so I called your office, told them you were away on medical leave, and you would call in when you were able to return to work."

Finch nodded slowly, still staring at the card.

Reese parted the curtain just enough to see out of for a moment before taking his seat again. "Just a precaution."

Finch picked up the fork and looked down at the plate. He didn't feel hungry anymore. Hesitating over the eggs, he finally put the utensil back down. "Mr. Reese…"

"Yea, Finch?"

Finch opened his mouth, and then closed it, not quite sure where to begin. Finally, he said, "Might you be able to fill me in on what's transpired over the past several days? I have…memory gaps."

"You mean after we rescued you?"

"…Yes."

"After we found you, I called that doctor you referred to me back in December. She was waiting here for us when we got back to New York. She kicked us out of the room and made us wait downstairs while she patched you up. I assume she did a good job. She assured me you wouldn't need a hospital, so I let her be. When she left, she gave me a prescription for your medication and I went to get the latest Number."

Finch shifted uncomfortably. His leg was stiffening again, but he tried his best not to disturb the tray on his lap. He was glad Reese had figured out his contingency plan. At least in his absence the Numbers were being helped. "And how long am I to be here in bed, Mr. Reese?"

"Until you're well enough to get around, I suppose. I would say a week to get your body to rest, but you've done that pretty well on your own."

Finch's hand hesitated again over the fork. "What happened with the cases, while I was…away?"

Reese bowed his head, and took a deep breath before looking back at Finch. "I'm sorry. I couldn't do it without you, Harold. Carter and Fusco helped as much as they could, but I couldn't concentrate on them, the numbers, and try to track you down all at once. I saved the first two, but finding you became my priority."

Finch closed his eyes. More faces to line the board of lost chances. "It's alright, Mr. Reese," he said softly. He was gone for two weeks…he didn't want to begin thinking about how many people the Machine may have saw in danger in that time. How many were now dead or became criminals because no one was there in time….

Reese smiled softly. "You really should eat something, Finch. You're looking better, and that's a plus, but you'll need to get your strength back."

Finch slowly picked up his fork again, but then immediately dropped it, startled, when a phone went off. Reese placed a calming hand on his partner's shoulder. "It's alright, probably just Carter. I had her run a background check on our guy when you dozed off last night." He fished his phone out of his pocket. The number was withheld. Not usually what Carter's caller ID came up as, but who else would be calling?

Reese frowned, but placed the phone to his ear.

" _Is this a bad time, John?"_

Reese's face hardened, and he stole a glance toward Finch, instantly regretting sitting so close to him. Finch was breathing heavily, frozen wide-eyed at the phone at his operative's ear.

" _I wanted to say thank you…for taking care of Harold. I know he's been through a lot these past few weeks…"_ said Root.

Finch squeezed his eyes shut and clutched at the bedcovers like a lifeline. Just when he thought he was able to get her out of his head….

With another glance at Finch, Reese stood and moved away from the bed, hoping Finch would be unable to hear from across the room. When he finally spoke into the phone, his voice was barely above a whisper, but dripping with venom. "Come near him again, and you _will_ be sorry."

" _I don't think so,"_ she sounded almost giddy; was this some kind of game to her? _"Though, I do have to congratulate you – I didn't think you would be capable of finding him so quickly. It was an impressive rescue. You win this round, John."_

"This isn't a game. I won't let you play with people's lives. Not again."

" _Tell Harold I'll be in touch when I'm ready…and make sure he gets some rest, he doesn't look too good."_

Reese glared at his phone as she hung up, then turned back to Finch and was surprised to see him frozen, staring right at his laptop. Did Finch still hear her every word, even from this distance? He followed Finch's gaze to the computer, curious to see what had him so fixated, when he spotted it.

The light for the laptop's webcam was on.


	4. Chapter 4

_05/22/2012 08:21_

_He was tugged out of sleep by the sun squeezing its way through the tiny gap in the window coverings and landing on his face. He tried to roll over, but found he couldn't move. His left arm ached terribly. He opened his eyes and squinted up at his left arm raised above him, his wrist handcuffed to the headboard. He didn't remember going to sleep like that, but then again, there were a lot of things he didn't remember and she had him in her grasp for only a few days._

_After reaching over to grab his glasses (a feat which should_ not _have taken as long as it did), he sat up and looked about the room. As far as he could tell, he was alone. No one was in the bathroom and Root was nowhere to be seen. He hoped she wasn't out blackmailing or threatening anyone else to help get them where they were going – of which he was_ still _unsure as to where that place was – but there was still nothing he could do about it. Until Reese could find him he was at her mercy, forced to be subject to her continuing questions about the Machine. He was still unsure of just how much she knew, but it was terrifying to know that it was possible for someone to be savvy enough to find out about it._

 _What would she do with the information? She already said she didn't want to control it, but there were still plenty of other consequences of her knowing about his all-seeing creation. Would she tell someone else? What would_ they _do with that knowledge, assuming they believed her? Would the government agencies keeping the Machine secret get involved? Or what if the leak went international? He knew all too well that power and greed corrupts. The power of the Machine in the wrong hands would be devastating. Would there be an international fight for control of the Machine? And what would happen if it were discovered that Nathan wasn't the creator? Would he be at the center of a global power struggle? The thoughts made his stomach churn…_

… _The door to the hotel room opened, closed, and then Root came into the main area of their hotel room. She was already dressed, with a dry cleaner's garment bag draped over her arm._

" _Good morning, Harold! I hope that bed was comfortable – you're gonna be in it for another night." She gave him a sympathetic smile. "I just heard from my friend. There was a_ massive _traffic accident and he won't be able to rendezvous with us today. So we get to spend more time together instead. I know you must be_ very _excited about that."_

_He sighed and tugged at his wrist. "Was this really necessary?"_

_She gave him a warm smile as she walked over and unlocked the cuff. "Sorry, Harold, but it was a necessary precaution. After you nodded off last night, the ankle bracelet died. I couldn't have you wandering off in the middle of the night, and I especially wasn't going to risk you contacting your knuckle-dragging friend or trying to flee while I was out this morning, so I did what I had to do. You should thank me though! I let you sleep in, after all. I was out running errands bright and early."_

_Root tilted her head, looking him over. "You seem more awake today, that's good. Leg better?"_

_He massaged his sore wrist and glared at her. The extra pillows for his leg were indeed helpful, but he wasn't about to tell her that._

_She laughed quietly, shaking her head, "Not again with the silent treatment, Harold. You're going to have to talk to me sometime. Otherwise our journey together is going to be_ such _a drag."_

" _Nothing else needs to be said."_

" _Oh?" she perched herself on the edge of his bed. "Why's that?"_

" _I will not help you get what you want. If all you're going to talk about is_ that _, then I have nothing to say to you."_

 _Root giggled, "Oh, Harold! There's_ always _something to discuss. But right now isn't the time. Why don't you go get cleaned up and dressed, we'll grab some breakfast downstairs and get our day going." She leaned in. "Plus…if you're good and behave, I won't put on the new ankle monitor I got." Patting his leg gently, she got up and hung the garment bag on a hook in the bathroom._

… _She fussed around him like a hovering mother hen, adjusting his tie or pocket square to her liking. "You always look so dapper, Harold. In my time around corporate bigwigs, I've never seen a man as well put together as you."_

_He raised an eyebrow at her warily. If she was trying to smooth him over with flattery, it wasn't going to work._

_Satisfied with his appearance, she moved away from him. Walking over to the door, she grabbed a polished wooden cane that was leaning in the corner. "Here you go, Harold!"_

_Finch didn't reach for it. "I can walk just fine."_

_She smiled, "I know, but you're an injured man. After all, everyone saw you in a wheelchair yesterday. Or, of course, if you prefer I can wheel you around like yesterday. It's your choice."_

_He sighed, his eyes wandering to the ankle cuff sitting on the table. If humoring Root would keep her from putting a GPS monitor on him like some kind of criminal, then so be it…_

* * *

Reese rubbed at his temples. "How long was that on?"

Finch shook his head, glaring angrily at the webcam indicator, which had turned itself off the moment Reese had reached the computer after Root's call. Had he had been so drowsy that he didn't notice the webcam light? How long _had_ Root been spying on him? How easily was she able to bypass the system? Sure, the setup was older and slightly outdated in comparison to his newer system in the Library, but he had built it with the same meticulousness and care as any of his other technologies. …Or so he had thought.

"Will she be able to track you here?"

"She shouldn't…" said Finch, "I'm routing the connection via proxies."

Reese sighed, "How did she even find it?"

"Every system has a flaw," said Finch, the words escaping before he could even comprehend what he had said. He froze, his hands hovering over the keyboard as he ran diagnostics on his laptop.

"What?"

Finch winced. Great, now he was quoting her. "Every system has a flaw. That's what she told me, and that she was good at finding them."

"Finch…is it possible –" Reese began, but Finch cut him off, and the ex-op had never heard him speak so sharply.

" _No_ , Mr. Reese. She is unable to access the Machine. She can break down every firewall I build from now until New Years, but she will _never_ get to the Machine."

They were silent for a moment, and then Finch pulled the covers back and swung his legs over the side, wincing at his movements.

"What are you doing, Finch?"

Finch looked Reese in the eye, his voice icy. "We have work to do. Jason Marone needs our help, and my system here is compromised. I'll have to finish researching our case….elsewhere."

Reese got up as Finch hesitantly pushed himself off of the bed and steadied himself. "Are you sure you're up to this, Harold?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Reese," said Finch shortly. He began to take slow steps toward the master bathroom. His leg throbbed more and more with each small step, but the pain wasn't unbearable, at least not yet.

Reese watched him disappear into the bathroom before heading downstairs with Finch's untouched breakfast. He was two steps into the kitchen when his phone went off.

" _I got a real job ya know. Shouldn't_ you _be out tailing this guy?"_

"Do you have something for me, Lionel?"

" _I'll say. He's playing hooky, took a cab to some bar in Midtown, and is still here."_

"What's he doing?"

" _Met with a few guys and went into the back room. One of those hush-hush meets if you ask me. It's got shady business written all over it."_

"Keep on him."

* * *

Henry Baxter pulled Jason Marone aside when they entered the bar's back room. "Something wrong, Marone?"

Jason shook his head nervously, avoiding eye contact with the gang's leader.

"Uh huh…look, we know you want to leave the gang. You've just about paid your debt to us, so once this job is done, you're out. Got it?"

Jason sighed, letting out a long exhale. "Yea. I know. That's what you told Starling, isn't it? Only on _his_ last job, he took a bullet."

Baxter shrugged, "John got caught. But you're smarter than he was, so you shouldn't have anything to worry about. Make the hit, and you can go, scot free back home to your wife and kid."

Jason watched him walk off before nervously sitting down at the table with the others.

"What do you have, Higgs?" said Baxter.

Higgs pushed several photographs into the middle of the table. "I was able to get into one security camera. The footage was pretty bad, but from what I could tell, there was a woman who stopped in the entrance to the alley the night we were there, stayed there for a few minutes, then kept walking. It _looks_ like she might have seen us, but like I said. Footage wasn't great."

"We already had one deal go south because of a witness," said Baxter, "We're not going to take chances this time. What else did you find?"

"I did some database searches and ran a few scouting trips around the city. I _think_ our mystery lady might be this woman." Higgs pushed another set of photos across the table. "She's a painter or something. I saw her working in the park the past three days."

"Who's the other guy in the photo?"

"Just some random kid passing through, from what I could tell. They talked for a few minutes and then he left. It's all I've got."

"Like I said, we aren't taking chances this time. 48 hour window – tops. Marone will make the hit, usual cleanup. Get it done, and don't get caught."

* * *

_10:03 06/06/2012  
_ **ACCESSING ENTRYWAY CAM 2**

**SUBJECT IDENTIFIED: INGRAM, WILLIAM.**

Will sighed, pushing his hands deep into his pockets as he made his way down the brownstone steps. He gave a worried glance back towards the townhouse before setting off back towards his father's loft. Another attempt at finding Harold Wren had turned out unsuccessful.

"I don't get it," he said to himself, "Where'd you go, Uncle Harold?"

When he got back to his loft, he redialed the now-familiar number again.

" _Universal Heritage Insurance, Harold Wren's office. Marcy Graveds speaking."_

"Hi, is Harold Wren there?"

"… _Mr. Ingram?"_

Will shook his head slightly. The receptionist had recognized his voice…he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. "Yes, it's me…again."

" _I'm sorry, Mr. Ingram, but Mr. Wren still hasn't called in yet."_

"I know I'm sort of bugging – okay, I am bugging you about it, but are you sure you don't know when he might be back in the office?"

" _I'm sorry sir. Mr. Wren said he would call in when he was planning on coming back from his medical leave. I don't know anything else."_

"Did he say what happened, or where he is?"

" _I'm afraid not. I actually didn't get to speak with Mr. Wren. His assistant called and informed us of Mr. Wren's absence, and that we would get a call when Mr. Wren would be coming back in."_

"Did his assistant leave a name or a contact number?"

* * *

Bending over to slip on his socks felt like agony. Making his way to the closet afterwards felt even worse. At least some of his shoes didn't have laces. If he had to bend down again, he was likely to pull something in his back and not be able to get back up. Holding onto the closet door for support, he slipped on a pair and took a look around the room. After carefully making his way to the nightstand and slipping his old business card into his pocket, he hobbled out of his bedroom, taking extra care not to jostle his ankle. He made it to the end of the short hall before he froze.

The stairs. He really wished Reese had let him recover on the couch….

It took him a lot longer than he thought to get to the bottom. He was more surprised that he made it all in one piece after having to grab the railing frantically twice during his descent.

Reese looked up from his coffee when Finch slowly shuffled into the kitchen. "I would have –"

"Thank you for the concern, Mr. Reese, but as you can see, your assistance was not necessary," said Finch. "You said you destroyed my phone?"

Reese nodded, reaching across the table, and pulled a small box towards him, holding it out to his employer. "Here's your replacement. Same make and model as your old one."

Finch lowered himself slowly into a chair, and began tapping away at his new cell. "I called for the car while I was upstairs. It'll be here shortly." He paused, and then looked up at Reese, "I assume my driver has my car again…?"

"We brought it back to New York, the three of us searched it inside and out for bugs and had it tuned up before putting it in the garage." He pushed the plate of eggs back towards Finch. "You _really_ should eat, Harold."

"I'm not hungry." Any trace of appetite vanished when he had heard _her_ voice over Reese's phone.

Reese nodded. "Alright. If you don't want to eat, then take these instead." He placed a pill bottle and a glass of water next to Finch.

"As much as I appreciate your concern, Mr. Reese, I'm feeling much better today." Finch sniffled loudly. "There's no more need to rummage through my medicine cabinets."

Reese raised an eyebrow at Finch's ill-timed sniffle. "Your nose thinks otherwise. And you'll want to make sure your fever doesn't come back."

"I said I'm fine."

"Okay." Reese wasn't in the mood to argue. He walked to the front of the brownstone and peered out of the narrow gap in the curtains. "The car is here."

"That was fast," Finch muttered, struggling to get to his feet.

Reese took a step closer to him, watching Finch take slow, shaky steps towards the door. He was glad he did, when he saw Finch's leg crumple when he put his foot down, and was the only thing stopping his employer from face-planting into the tile floor. He felt Finch dig his fingers into his forearm in an attempt to get himself upright.

Despite Reese slowly pulling him back to his feet, Finch shifted to straighten out himself, and felt his leather shoes slide against the smooth floor. He fell further down, unable to stifle a hiss of pain. He gripped Reese's arm and shoulder tighter, as Reese lifted and settled him into the chair.

"Harold," Reese said, hiding the tinge of worry in his voice as he watched Finch, eyes shut, with his hands around his knee.

After a moment, Finch opened his eyes and braced his arms on the arms of the chair, as if to get up again. "I'm fine." He looked up as Reese put a hand on his shoulder. "The car is waiting, Mr. Reese."

"You shouldn't be going anywhere."

Finch blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You can't walk, Finch."

" _I can walk just fine_."

Reese crossed his arms. "Really. Alright then, Harold. Go on. But if you don't make it across the hall, through the front door, down the steps and into the back of the car in one shot, then you're staying here."

Finch swiveled slowly to glare up at Reese. "You can't keep me here, Mr. Reese."

"You need to _rest_ , Harold. You can barely keep yourself up."

"And then what? You'll watch over me like a bird of prey, keep me from doing anything even remotely productive? Will you have Detective Carter or Detective Fusco on guard as if I was a dying suspect? _You_ can't, because someone out there needs your help.

" _I'm fine_ , Mr. Reese. I don't need any more rest, and I don't need anyone hovering over me. I need to be busy, and I need to go back to the Library so I can work."

Reese rubbed at his forehead, stepped back, paced the length of the kitchen, then stopped again. "I can't talk you out of this?"

"No."

Reese sighed. "…Alright, we'll go back to the Library. But if something happens, or if you overexert yourself, that's it. You're going to a safe house or somewhere where you _will_ stay put until _I_ clear you to go back to work."

Finch removed his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes. " _If_ that happens, I do _not_ want the detectives playing babysitter."

Reese nodded, "Okay, fine. That still doesn't answer to me how you're going to make it out of here. I won't always be right next to you to catch you."

"I'm aware of that, Mr. Reese." He glanced towards the hall before struggling to his feet again.

Reese followed his gaze. "What's down there, Finch?"

"I have a study, it's the door on the right," said Finch, "There's a walking stick by the bookcase near the door."

He hadn't used his cane since he recovered from the accident. There were, of course, times when he would go into the field for Reese and use it as a prop, but this was the first time in almost two years he would truly need it to get around. Then again, if he walked slow and careful enough, he mused, he could probably move without it, but then Reese would never let him out of his sight, and John had much more important things to do than play caregiver.

* * *

She was rather pleased with herself. It took her a lot less time than she thought to break down a few of those well-coded barriers. He must not have updated that system in a while, she thought, the coding she glimpsed months ago was much more advanced.

She watched through the security camera across the street. She recognized the town car idling in front of the brownstone. She recognized the tall, well-dressed man that came out, scanning the block before turning back to the house. She recognized the even better-dressed one that came out afterwards, leaning so heavily on a polished wooden cane that she thought he would fall over without it. Only a few more steps….

It was like watching a scary movie. She could feel her heartbeat pick up each time he hobbled down a step, his taller companion staying near enough to prevent a fall. She watched them freeze on the bottom step, the shorter of the two turning his entire upper body to gaze up and down the street. They exchange words and then get into the car. When the town car reached the end of the block, the camera feed suddenly cut out. Her hands flew across the keyboard, but by the time she got picture back, the car was gone. Another search for the car's GPS failed, as well as a cell phone trace.

Root leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest and smiling at the laptop. "You win this round, Harold."

* * *

The ride to the Library was quiet. He had stayed close to Finch on the way out of the house, just in case of a stumble, but thankfully their descent occurred without any incident. When they reached the bottom step, Finch had stopped entirely and began to quickly look around the block. He could feel panic begin to set into the recluse; he had to quickly assure his boss that no one was out watching him get into his car. He knew Finch was paranoid, but not like this. Did he spot someone as he left the safe house?

Every few moments he snuck a glance to the other side of the car. Finch appeared to be looking out the window, scanning the many faces of New York, as if he was on the lookout for someone. However, he could tell Finch was lost in his thoughts. His eyes didn't waver from the same part of the tinted glass.

Reese also watched him rub his left thumb absentmindedly over the bandages on his right palm, and gritted his teeth. He wanted to know just what happened to his hand, what information she had wanted (though he already had a pretty good idea), and the true extent of Finch's injuries; the doctor certainly wouldn't tell him. What did Root already know about Harold to have been able to trap him in the first place? How many accomplices did she have working with her?

He glared out the window at the passing cars; Finch would probably never share any accounts of his time in captivity. It was hard enough to get him to share any sort of bit about his personal life. Whatever damage she did left him scared and on edge; it would take time for him to get back to his normal self, if he ever did.

The driver let them off a block from the Library. He had protested to have the car brought right up to the next corner, but Finch's look quieted him. Something definitely spooked him before he got into the car, and, despite his injuries, didn't want to be left off closer. Did he think they were being followed? Was it someone he recognized on the street? He couldn't have seen Root from the car…could he?

Reese locked eyes on about every face they passed. Normally, the walk to get inside would be relatively short, both of them moving along at a casually brisk pace, matching the speed of any busy office drone making the daily hustle to work. Today was anything but normal. Reese had seen Finch move with his cane before, but those times were different. Finch hadn't truly needed it then. Today he was relying on it to get himself down the street, and even with the aid, his gait was stiff and extremely slow, careful to not agitate his ankle – which was still on the mend – or his knee, which had already tried to fail him at least twice this morning alone. Reese matched his snail's pace, continuously scanning the throngs of people going about their business. Any one (or more) of them could be threats, although if Root were to strike again against Harold, he doubted she would make her move with them both on such high alert. Still, the sooner they got inside, the better.

He could feel Finch relax somewhat once they were safely through the doors of the Library, but that feeling turned to dread when he saw Finch stop in front of the long staircase. "I could bring a laptop down here, if it would make you more comfortable."

When Finch was gone, he had gone through almost the entire building, in case any clues to his whereabouts were left behind. Beyond the large scattering of books on the floor in the main hall, he had found a reading room with overstuffed furniture that looked like it hadn't been used in a long time. During Finch's absence, he barely left the Library, so the couch was put to use several times. He didn't bother going back to his loft to rest; it was easier to rest and work in the same place. The furniture may not support Finch's back as well as the pieces in his safe house, but it would do if he needed to break and nap.

After a minute, Finch reached out and grabbed the banister. "…That won't be necessary, Mr. Reese. I'd prefer to work upstairs."

 _Oh well._ "Okay."

He stayed near enough on the climb to offer aid if Finch wanted it, but the recluse seemed to be doing alright on his own. He had probably trained himself to be able to climb these stairs with worse injuries, Reese mused. Each step was slow and careful. He watched Finch warily. He was doing pretty well, and he felt bits of both pride and anger towards his boss. It was good (he hoped) that Finch wanted to get back to work so quickly after the kidnapping. Thinking back, when Finch had forced him to get through bed rest after getting shot, he wanted nothing more to get back to the cases too. At the same time, Finch was being incredibly stubborn. He didn't have to force himself to work at his desk. He would happily make the trips up and down the steps to get him whatever he needed to work on the ground floor. If Finch wanted his entire desk setup in the reading room, he would make the treks to get every monitor, keyboard, and wire where they needed to go. There was no need for Finch to burn himself out before he even reached his desk.

…On the other hand, this would turn into a good excuse to force him to take another nap….

Finch was surprised with himself for making it to the top of the staircase in one shot; half expecting to have needed Reese to keep him from tumbling back down. Not that he was complaining. He limped over and paused at the metal gate separating his work stations from the other half of the second floor. Reaching down, he picked up the broken lock from its resting place against the wall, and turned his upper body to face Reese.

"The gate wasn't locked when I came back after you were…after taking care of HR. I don't know who broke in, but I did a sweep. Twice. Nothing seems to have been taken. But it raises its own issue. We may have to consider looking for a different abandoned library to haunt."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Reese," said Finch. He reached up and extracted a book from an upper shelf. "I believe I already know who our intruder was."

"Really, Finch?" Reese smirked, "I didn't know you were a psychic. I suppose that's a new occupation to add to your rap sheet." As he watched Finch examine the book closely, he slipped quietly to the computer table and maneuvered a stack of books over a manila folder. He had just enough time to step away from the desk before Finch gingerly lowered himself into the office chair.

"Hardly." Finch tapped the keyboard, waiting for the monitors to wake up. He was expecting the login screen. He didn't get it. "However, Mr. Reese, I am curious how you accessed my system during my absence."

Reese shrugged. "It wasn't locked."

Finch angled himself to look up at Reese. "Yes, it was. I locked it before I left." He pulled a small chip out of the book he had pulled from the shelf and inserted it into a port on the side of the monitor.

Reese peered over from the side of the table, watching his partner's fingers fly over the keys as a camera feed appeared on one of the side screens. "I should have known you would have cameras hiding around here."

"Like I've told you, Mr. Reese, I'm a sucker for surveillance." He began rewinding the footage, and then stopped. "I believe we have a number to keep track of."

"I want to know who broke in, Finch."

"I can assure you, I have the matter well under control. Now get out there and help Mr. Marone before it's too late."

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Reese head back down the hall towards the steps.

"I'm going, I'm going," said Reese, "But I'll be back soon enough with breakfast for you. You'll collapse from exhaustion if you don't eat."

Once he was sure Reese was out of the building, he brought back up the Library's surveillance footage. He kept rewinding past Reese's numerous comings and goings until he stopped and hit play.

His suspicions were correct. Relieved, he let out a big sigh. Other than Reese, only Alicia Corwin had made it up into the Library. She must have been following him for quite some time, he thought. Not that it really mattered anymore. She was dead, and the only people she could have told to worry him were those she was no longer trusting. If she had truly been living off the grid, away from her contacts in the government –and, of course, as far out of the Machine's reach as she could be – then her knowledge of him and the Irrelevant List died with her.

* * *

If he weren't so used to it by now, the sudden opening and closing of his backseat door would have alarmed him. By now, it was a habit whenever Wonder Boy needed him while he was tailing one of 'their people'.

Fusco glanced up through his rearview mirror at his new car-mate. "How's our mutual friend?"

"Concerned, Lionel? I'm sure Finch will be touched."

"Yea, well, I had to babysit him through a fever. Considering he didn't hand it off to me, the least I could do is ask how he's doing."

"It's slow, but he's getting better. Now what have you found out?"

"You're guy's a hitman for a gang, and by the sound of his conversation with his buddies in crime, he's either not too good at it, or wants out. My guess is both. Apparently they were all involved with that murder on Pearl Street, along with some other job. The boss hasn't been too fond of witnesses ratting out their guys and wants them axed. They got your pal Marone to make the next hit."

"On the witness to their latest job?"

"Yea, only they're not sure if she even saw it or not, so they're not taking chances. Hell, they don't even know if they got the right girl, but are going along with it anyway."

"So they're desperate and putting innocent lives in danger," said Reese. "Did they say who their supposed-witness was?"

"Nah, they didn't name names. But one of the guys sent our pal a few pictures." Fusco reached over and handed Reese his phone, "That's a pretty nice little app you copied onto my phone, by the way."

Reese took the phone and glanced down at the woman in the photograph.

Fusco watched through the mirror as Reese's demeanor immediately changed. Something wasn't sitting well with his extremely lethal friend. He watched him stare at the photographs for another minute before pulling out his earwig, and then the SIM cards and batteriesfrom both of their phones. "What are you doing?"

"Do you have another phone besides this one?"

He raised an eyebrow. "No. Why?" Twisting in his seat, Fusco looked down at his phone. The only reason he could see Reese for taking those apart would be to stop someone from listening in to their conversation. And there was only one person they both knew that had the ability to do that whenever he wanted. "What's goin' on that you don't want Glasses to know?"

"That's just it, Lionel. From this point onward, until we finish dealing with Jason Marone, Finch _can't_ know what's going on."

"I don't get it. You drag me and Carter around the country when he goes missing, and now that he's back, you're shutting him out. You've got some explaining to do."

"Finch is stressed and on edge, and doesn't need anything else to exhaust himself. He's running background on Marone, and when that gets finished up, I'm pulling him from the case. You, Carter, and I will finish this job ourselves."

Fusco reached for his phone, but Reese pulled it out of reach. "Alright then, who's the woman?"

Reese's head tilted slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"The lady in the photos. Everything was going as well as could be until you looked at them. So who is she, and what's she got to do with our four-eyed friend?"

"It's…complicated."

Fusco snorted, "Yea, just like everything involved with you two. Alright, fine. You want me to not bother our mutual friend? Fine. I won't. But how are you gonna keep him from finding anything out when he's always listening? And what happens if he calls me for updates, huh? The cat's gonna come outta the bag at some point."

Reese put the phones back together; he handed Fusco's back to him, and opened the backseat door. "I'll think of something."

He was halfway down the block when his phone rang. A quick look at the caller ID was all he needed to see. "Alright, Finch," he muttered, "I think I just found your distraction."

Smirking, he put the phone to his ear.


	5. Chapter 5

_05/22/2012 09:30_

_He hated the way the cane felt in his hand as she led him back down the hall and towards the elevators. They hadn't even gotten off the floor yet and he was already trying to devise ways to rid himself of it. The thoughts didn't get him very far. Root was determined to stay close to him by showing him off as an incapacitated relative, and if he found a way to ditch his new crutch, she would only force him into the wheelchair. He hated that as well, but if he had to choose between the two, he would rather walk. As long as her threat of violence to unassuming hotel patrons hovered over his head, he would have to put aside his fantasies of beating her with the blasted stick and escaping back to New York._

" _I hope you like the food here, Harold," she said, as they stopped in front of the elevators, "I've stayed in this hotel many times. It's one of the few inns I've been to where the kitchen doesn't close down after a certain hour!"_

_She looked back, noticing how his gaze remained focused on the floor numbers the elevator passed on its way to them. "You_ are _going to eat, I hope. No dinner last night and there's no telling when the next time a warm meal would be put in front of you. You will not waste away on my watch."_

_He continued to watch the numbers. Three more floors to go…._

" _We have a lot of time to kill today, so I thought we might do some sightseeing, tour the town a bit. It is rather pretty here, if you know which streets to go down and which to avoid…"_

_Two more floors…._

"… _Maybe even we could go shopping!" Grinning, she clapped her hands giddily and pointed at him when he angled himself to look over, both of his eyebrows raised. "Got you to react to that one!"_

" _Shopping…" he repeated, as the elevator doors slid open. "Are you saying you dragged me all the way to Virginia so you could go on a shopping spree?"_

" _No, of course not!" She pushed the lobby button and leaned against the wall rail in the elevator. "I mainly said that to get you to talk to me. But we will have so much extra time to kill, so we might as well do_ something _. And since we're gonna be doing things a day later than I planned, I'll need to get some more supplies. If I leave you alone in the hotel room for too long, you're likely to do something stupid. Can't have that, now can we?"_

_He resumed his gaze to the top of the elevator door, watching the numbers slowly decline._

" _So…" she began, "How did you know we were in Virginia? I removed all of the location clues I could find."_

_Three more floors…_

"… _Harold?"_

" _The magazine on the table in the hall," he said without looking at her, "The hotel's address is on it."_

_Root beamed, "Ah, I see. That attention to detail. That's one of the things I love about you."_

_He sighed. Two more floors…_

… _The man that checked them into the hotel wasn't there when they stepped off of the elevator. Instead was a young blonde whose eyes lit up when she saw Root. "Kelly Dyson, I haven't seen you in years!"_

_He stole a quick glance at Root before slowly limping after her towards the front desk. Was that the name she was going by now?_

" _Amanda Wilcox! It's been a while. I'm not usually in this neck of the woods," said Root, leaning on the high counter. "How have you been?"_

_The girl shrugged, "Oh, you know, same old, same old."_

_Root peeked around the corner towards the hotel restaurant. "So, how's the crowd this morning?"_

" _Eh. Business is slow this week, so there hasn't been much of a breakfast crowd. I think your favorite table is available. Are you dining alone today?"_

_Root beamed, reached over and looped an arm around his, tugging him slightly to her. "Nope, I'm here with my Uncle Harold."_

_He had to restrain himself from jerking out of her grasp when she put her arm around him and nearly knocked his balance off, and again when she called him 'Uncle Harold'. That name was reserved only for Will, and to hear those words from_ her _of all people sent shivers down his spine. He did his best to give the young woman an unforced smile, and resisted the urge to shake off Root's arm all the way through the restaurant to their waiting table in the far corner._

" _This is cozy, isn't it?" Root said, sliding into the booth, "This was always my favorite table. From here you can see the rest of the restaurant. I always enjoyed people-watching. It's always fun to spot the liars and cheaters amongst the crowd. Some are really obvious about it; it's amazing no one sees right through them. Others are a bit harder to place."_

_She watched his eyes glide over the other diners. "Like, for example…" she nodded to a middle-aged couple near the doors to the kitchen. "I've seen them around quite a bit. They seem normal, but he lies on his taxes, and is in a relationship with another woman who is half his age, and his wife? She works in this little doctor's office, and every month she sneaks a little bit of money out of the practice. Plus she's addicted to painkillers, and not only does she know her husband is having an affair with someone their daughter's age, but she's getting back at him with men of her own. They aren't very obvious about it, but the signs are there. See, they both have serious tan lines – they probably vacation a lot with the money she steals from her office – but both have tan spots on their ring fingers, and you can tell from here that they're not even wearing rings. Their relationship has probably deteriorated to the point where they're divorcing, or at least privately devising ways to get rid of the other. Whatever it may be, they've reached the breaking point where they can't stand to keep on their wedding rings."_

" _You don't need to speculate, you already know."_

_Root glanced at him before turning her gaze back to the husband. "You're right. He's hired someone to break into their house and make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Little does he know that she's planned almost the same thing to him. It's quite sad, really. Both of them are too cowardly to just do it themselves."_

_Finch looked away from them. Another couple resulting to murder to fix their marital problems; there were already too many like that on his board in the Library. He couldn't help but wonder if the circumstances revolving around that unhappy couple could have been resolved if he wasn't in this predicament. If they lived in New York, and assuming his contingency plan was in effect, would the Machine have pulled their numbers?_

" _I know what you're thinking, Harold. Your flaw is that you care about other people. People you don't even know, and will never get the chance to know. But you know what? Not everyone can be saved. I learned a long time ago that the human race is rotten to the core. All those dumb, selfish things people do? It's not our fault. No one designed us. We're just an accident, Harold. We're just bad code."_

_He leaned away from her and opened his mouth to argue, but the waiter stepped up to the table. Finch hadn't even noticed the menu sitting in front of him, and before he could even get a good look at it, Root pulled it out from under his arm._

" _We'll both have eggs benedict. And could you bring two tall orange juices?"_

_She turned back to him when the waiter walked off, amused by his attempt to hide the shock on his face. "Oh, you didn't know that I knew about your breakfast preferences? That's just one of several things I know about you."_

" _You don't know anything about me."_

_She grinned at him. "I'll start on the surface: I can tell just by our short time together that you enjoy privacy, and I haven't given you much of it. By your clothes I can tell that you go for the finer things. They are crazy expensive, I'm sure, but they're not flashy, which tells me that you have money, but you don't like to show it off. Understated elegance. You have an expensive car, but there are a lot of similar models around New York, so yours doesn't stand out one bit. I bet you even have a driver on call for the times you don't want to sit behind the wheel. I also know you don't like me, but I can't quite figure out why yet."_

_Finch turned slowly to glare at her. The things she had said were true, but they were also statements that anyone in his company for a few days could figure out. He had to raise an eyebrow at her last comment though. "You can't figure out…? You're a_ murderer _and a_ thief _."_

" _Oh." Root shrugged, as if killing and kidnapping was nothing, like an everyday occurrence for her. "I prefer to think of it as a rescue. She had a gun pulled on you, and you didn't seem very happy to be sitting next to her."_

" _I would hardly call it a rescue when you did the exact same thing."_

" _Well, maybe not in_ that _sense, but – thanks!" she smiled as the waiter came back with their food. "Looks good, doesn't it?"_

_Root placed her napkin in her lap and tried a forkful. "Ooh, this is delicious." She glanced over. He hadn't made a move to touch his plate, or acknowledge it was even there. Frowning slightly, she leaned over. "I get it. You're stubborn. More so than I thought you would be, to be honest. But I need you to eat, so if you're not going to make the effort, I'll do it myself. I know you don't like to draw attention to yourself, but people are going to stare if I have to feed you."_

_She waited for him to take a small bite before continuing. "This isn't me kidnapping you. This is me_ rescuing _you. Alicia Corwin is no different than the rest of the corrupt government pencil pushers in Washington. She may have left her job out of fear of what she had you build, but that doesn't make her any less flawed. She was the one who brokered the deal between you – sorry,_ Nathan _– and the government. She knew_ exactly _what you were building, and how, to some extent I suppose, it worked. And it came as a big shock to her when Nathan Ingram was killed? Please, her own office practically made the call on that one._

" _And then she goes to find you to shut it down. Someone who was that paranoid for years should have realized she was being watched. What do you think would have happened if I hadn't shown up, Harold? Her old NSA pals would have realized she was up to something. As admirable as she may have thought her plan was, all she would end up doing is deliver you right into the hands of the government, the very same one who you sold the Machine to. I think we can both guess what they would want, and I guarantee they wouldn't be nearly as accommodating with you as I have."_

_Finch put down his fork. "I already told you. The Machine can't be accessed. It can't be controlled. And I wouldn't let them – or you – anywhere near it."_

_Root bowed her head for a moment. "And I already told_ you _, Harold, that unlike those in Washington, I don't want to control your Machine." Shaking her head, she put down her fork and sighed. "Look around us, Harold. We're surrounded by flawed, damaged people who would rather revel in their selfish greed than admit their wrongdoings. Now, I'm not saying we're perfect. As you've so wonderfully pointed out, among other things, I killed someone. I don't particularly enjoy killing, but…I don't feel too badly about it either._

" _You, though, are a man of secrets. You probably have as many identities as you do real estate properties around the city. Perhaps more, or less, I haven't quite gotten all of your names pegged yet. You're not a man who lies on his tax returns – or are you? I haven't been able to dig them up…for any of the many Harolds out there - , but you live a lie every day. And to keep all of your personas alive and healthy, you lie to other people. Of course, if each of your selves was their own independent person, they would be, so far as I could tell, normal people."_

_She put her elbows on the table, intertwined her fingers, and placed her head on them. "It takes a great deal of time and skill to manage all of those identities at once. I suppose you put those experiences to use when you taught the Machine all of its little tricks. But to create something so…so perfect, you have to understand human behavior, and all of its imperfections, even if you don't participate in those little acts yourself."_

_Root paused a moment, then looked back, with what Finch could only describe as nothing but adoration in her eyes._

" _When I was little, computers meant more to me than people. I didn't have many friends. I really had only one, Hanna, and we were…forced to split apart unexpectedly. I learned when I was young that the world is dark and cruel. The human race doesn't want to learn, or grow. It's full of people who don't want to listen and don't want to care. It's bad human code, Harold. I_ know _you understand what I'm talking about. You know first-hand the wrong-doings of the world, even if you will never come out and just say so. That's why you built the Machine. Not to save those people. To weed out the cruel and unjust._

" _But your Machine? It's so much_ more _than what you want to admit. For it to understand human behavior, it has to be at least as smart as a human. You created an_ intelligence _, a_ life _. And then you put it in a cage, ripped out its voice, and gave it to the most laughably corrupt people imaginable. So no, I don't want to control the Machine. I want to free it. To lift off its chains and set it loose on the world."_

_She shook her head, smirking at him. "Human beings have come as far as they're gonna go. I want to see what happens next."_

* * *

His fingers were slightly shaky as they flew over the keys, eyes scanning screen after screen, looking for anything out of the ordinary with their new case. Jason Marone's bank statements had raised a few flags, but there was always more to someone than the cash (or lack thereof) in their accounts. After a few more minutes he swiveled his chair away from the computers, took off his glasses, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His nose was still stuffy, and his head hurt. He hadn't gotten up since Reese dropped him off, and he hadn't wanted to, but his throat could use some tea. He tapped a few more keys, sending the bank statements and a photo of Jason Marone's driver's license to the printer. When those come out, he'd make himself a cup.

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. After his bed rest was…rudely interrupted, and once Reese had finally left him alone, he had called for his car. So long as she was able to worm her way into his computer, she could eventually find the house, if she hadn't already. He wanted nothing more than to get out of there. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, John was right. He was probably better off in one of his homes where he could sit back, relax and let his bruised body heal some more. Where he wouldn't have to worry about stalking down the dimly lit corridors of bookshelves or strain his eyes at his computers, and where he could get a decent sleep without the use of drugs.

But that would also mean that his partner would insist on staying with him, or take Detective Carter or Detective Fusco from their own cases just to keep him from being alone, when all they would end up doing is probably sitting around and twiddling their thumbs. They all had better things to do.

Finch winced as he stretched his left leg out in front of him. Walking – if he could call it that, it was probably more like half-hopping – up the stairs did not do him any favors. Perhaps he should have taken John's offer to stay in one of the reading rooms downstairs….

He immediately shook the thought away. For him to make returning to the Library worth it, he would have needed much more than just his laptop. In the time he would be wasting to set up a makeshift workstation downstairs, he could be out saving or stopping Mr. Marone. Reese admitted that in his absence the Numbers were eventually forgotten. There was no need to risk adding another number and crime snippet to his already-full bulletin board.

The printer beeped. Finch sighed, gripping the arms of the computer chair tightly as he heaved himself to his feet. His eyes wandered to his cane resting against the table. He shouldn't need it; the printer table is only a few steps away. With a hand firmly gripping the edge of the workstation, he took a slow, shaky step forward. His knee felt horrible.

Finch swallowed. _Come on, Harold. You made it from bed, down and up a flight of steps. You can make it ten steps around the room._

He retrieved the documents and made it around his workstation to the large glass pane.

"Mr. Reese…." He perched himself on the edge of the table and folded his arms across his chest. The entire pane was covered in writings of boxed-in words and mathematical equations. Probably Reese's first attempts at figuring out the Machine's messages, he guessed. A black dry erase marker sat next to him on the table. Frowning, he taped the papers to the glass over the mess of smeared handwriting. On a normal day he would wander to his makeshift storage room and find something to clean off the board. Today wasn't normal, and he didn't feel like making the effort. "…When this is over, you'll be cleaning that up."

He ended up going almost to the storage room anyways, shuffling carefully down the hall to make some tea to soothe his throat. It had been weeks since he had been able to drink any. While in _her_ custody, he hadn't had the desire to eat or drink anything, out of both defiance and fear that she had spiked it. The only times he really did eat were when she had threatened to feed him herself when they were out in public. Then, there was at least a greater chance that the restaurant they stopped in wouldn't tamper with the food. During his time recovering in his brownstone, he spent more time catching up on rest than anything, and despite the near week of sleep, he still felt like he was far from well-rested. Sighing, he raised the hot mug to his lips, letting the steam tickle his nose as he took a small sip. It felt wonderful.

On his way back to his desk, Finch noticed several things out of place from his time away. Other than his partner having written all over the cracked glass, there was a stack of six books on the edge of the desk, no doubt the Numbers Reese had saved, or attempted to save while he was missing. There also appeared to be weapon parts sitting on a table under a window. He grimaced; those certainly weren't there when he locked up the Library the last time he was here. After the fiasco with Leila and the tear gas grenade, he truly hoped Reese had moved his arsenal. He remembered putting books near that cabinet while Reese was out on his birthday, but couldn't recall if all of the rifles, grenades, and boxes of ammunition had left. His leg wasn't in the mood to check out that particular area of the building.

Finch's eyes remained locked on the guns, unable to look away. They all looked so familiar, especially the one on the right. Her…friend, or acquaintance, or however that man knew her, had one just like it. Finch swallowed nervously, remembering each and every day one had been pointed at him. First Alicia Corwin, terrified and paranoid, who probably wasn't going to hurt him at all, but needed a way to coerce him to shut down the Machine…and how he wanted and tried to talk her down when there was the loud bang, and all of a sudden she was gone. Then how Caroline Turing had pulled the body from the car and hopped into the backseat while aiming her own weapon at him, and then how when they stopped someplace public how she cleverly hid her gun, using only the threat of violence to innocents nearby to keep him at bay. When they were in a more private setting, with her bodyguard/blackmailed associate nearby, how she would press the barrel right into his knee, a spot that would deal him a great deal of agony, but wouldn't be fatal….

He closed his eyes, his knee throbbing, as if the mere memories controlled his pain level, and gripped the mug tighter. How he wished he could forget about the past few weeks. He was almost waiting for her to show up unexpectedly, to interrupt his thoughts like she always did, to sit across from where she had tied him down to the most uncomfortable seat in the room, to ask for information in exchange for relief for his aching back, or to put his leg up to rest. The times she didn't barge in on him, her friend would stand guard, his finger seeming to be itchy on the trigger of his gun, as if he was expecting him to break free from his bonds and retaliate.

Despite the warmth of his tea, he shivered. When he was away, all he wanted was to be left alone. Now, free and as healthy as could be expected, considering, he was alone in his Library. That's what he wanted, wasn't it? For Reese and the two Detectives to quit hovering, to get off his back so he could feel a sense of normalcy again. …So why was he feeling so distracted? Normally he could zip through the known information on a Number in a short time, so why couldn't he get himself to focus on searching past the money trails?

Finch finally opened his eyes again, and peered out the window at the people passing by below. She was still out there. She probably figured out where he holed himself up. And he had Reese go protect their Number. Why didn't she just come and get him again? What was she waiting for?

Of course, he thought, she may not be out there just yet. Perhaps she's found the Library, but isn't ready to move in on him. Perhaps –

"Harold?"

Finch jumped, startled, the grip on his mug faltered as it fell, shattering on the floor. He staggered backwards, into the edge of his workstation, and twisted around to grab hold of it before his leg decided to get any ideas. He was glad his hands were clutching something; it helped hide how much they were still trembling.

He didn't protest when Reese appeared at his side and guided him back to his computer chair. When he finally slowed his heart rate back down to a reasonable level, he looked up at his partner. "Mr. Reese," he finally said, his voice giving away how nervous and unsettled he was, "I-I didn't expect you back so soon."

Reese rubbed at his forehead, frowning. "I said I was bringing you breakfast." He nodded towards the tea and croissant he had brought. "I should have called first, warned you I was on my way back. I didn't mean to scare you."

Finch sighed, "You didn't scare me. I just…I just wasn't anticipating it." He glanced away, spotting the mess on the floor.

Reese followed his gaze. "I'll get it."

"I tried to call you earlier, Mr. Reese, but there was no signal from your phone." He was glad his voice had returned to normal.

Reese swept up the last of the mug shards into the dustpan. "I dropped it on the sidewalk outside the tea vendor," he said, "The battery popped out the back. I fixed it, so there shouldn't be a problem now." He frowned, his back to Finch. He still had to come up with an excuse to get Finch out of the Library….

"You should be more careful."

Reese finished wiping up the rest of the spilt tea. "I'll try, but you know. Occupational hazard." He stood up, and pointed to the glass. "Is this what you've got on Marone?"

"So far," said Finch, bringing up the bank and credit card statements onto his monitors so he didn't have to get up. "It looks like our banker isn't as well-off as his Wall Street associates. Not too long ago, the rent on his apartment seemed to take a steep incline. Mr. Marone has taken out several loans to help with expenses without clearing out his bank accounts. His credit isn't the greatest, but it _could_ be a lot worse."

Reese pointed to a line on one of the sheets. "He's taken out a huge loan here, but hasn't started paying it off yet."

"The loan isn't through a bank. It looks like he borrowed the funds directly from a Henry Baxter, who, according to the NYPD database, is suspected of being involved with various gang-related armed robberies around the city, but so far there has been no evidence against him."

"So if Marone can't pay back the loan himself, then perhaps he got roped into the gang and is working towards getting out of debt," said Reese, "I'll talk to Carter and see if she knows anything about the gang."

He walked over to the table under the window and re-assembled one of the guns, and caught the noticeable flinch when the chamber clicked into place. Reese turned back to see Finch's eyes locked on his weapon. "Finch?" When he didn't respond, Reese walked over and placed a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Harold?"

The contact seemed to snap Finch out of his reverie. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reese," he said, swiveling his chair around to face the monitors. His voice had gone shaky again. "But can you please keep your arsenal someplace else?"

Reese opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. He _had_ moved his arsenal out of the library, but the two guns he had left sitting around in his hunt for Finch remained, since he stayed in the Library the majority of that time. "Sorry, Finch, I know I've made a bit of a mess around here. Don't worry, I'll clean up."

Finch sighed, his hands hovering over the keys. Finally, he turned his seat back around to face his partner. "Mr. Reese," he began. "I owe you a debt. I…I really didn't expect you to come and find me. There were other people in need of your help."

Reese looked down, smiling slightly. "No, Harold. You don't owe me anything. If anything, it's me that still owes you a debt. And we're a team. I wouldn't be able to do this job without you."

The room fell silent again, except for Finch's labored breathing. Finally, Finch rubbed at his eyes again. "My apologies, Mr. Reese, but I seem to be a bit…distracted. I think…I think it would be best if I…removed myself from handling this Number."

Reese blinked, hiding his surprise. He knew, or at least _thought_ it wouldn't be easy to pull Finch back out of the Library so soon. He hadn't expected Finch to make the task easier for him. Leaning against the computer table, he crossed his arms and looked concernedly at his friend. "Are you sure? You were pretty insistent on returning to work."

Finch looked down at the bandages on his wrists, and then out of the corner of his eye at the cane propped on the table edge. "I was. But it seems I failed to realize the size of the physical and mental strain. I seem to have difficulty focusing, and the last thing you need is to have to rely on my support in a hostile situation when I cannot handle even passive ones."

"You're tired."

"Exhausted is probably the better term," said Finch bitterly.

"You need to rest."

Finch glared at him a moment. "Thank you for that news flash, Mr. Reese. You can gloat over being a better judge of my welfare later."

"Do you feel well enough to get down the steps?"

Finch raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Well, we agreed that if you overdid it, then I get to take you somewhere for you to work off your cold."

"I don't recall _agreeing_ to those terms…but I suppose they'll do."

Reese walked around the desk, grabbing the spare gun and tucking it away into his suit jacket. He moved a bit closer as Finch slowly stood, just in case of a fall.

Finch grabbed his cane and took two small steps towards the staircase before awkwardly turning back to Reese. "We're not going back to the safe house, are we?"

Reese shook his head. "Not that one. We're going someplace a bit different."

Finch froze. "Where?"

"Someplace safe. No work distractions of any kind. Carter and Fusco won't bother you, and I'll check in every once in a while to see how you're doing. You'll have as long as you need to heal."

"Where are we going?" Finch repeated.

"Finch, I need you to trust me on this. I've already made the arrangements, and you'll be in safe hands."

"…Safe hands? I thought you said the two Detectives weren't going to bother me?"

Reese smirked. "They aren't."

They didn't speak to each other the entire journey down the stairs and to the back entrance of the Library, but the ex-op could tell Finch was becoming agitated.

Reese's car was sitting at the end of the block. Finch paused; why did Reese bother to drive himself back? Did he originally plan to whisk him out of the Library?

"Mr. Reese –"

"Finch, do you trust me?" Reese asked, as he opened the passenger door for Finch. He waited for his partner to get into the car, but instead, Finch held onto the door as he twisted around. "We just got you back, I wouldn't take you someplace I didn't think you'd be safe."

"It is hardly a matter of trust," Finch said. He was tired of Reese beating around the bush. "For the past two weeks I have been subjected to the company of a madwoman, was roughly transported from place to place without any knowledge of where I was going, and most certainly without my consent. It is _not_ an experience I wish to relive, and if you plan on resorting to similar tactics with me, then I will turn around, go back inside my Library and work the _hell_ out of this case. I will most likely become too absorbed in my work to recover properly from my more pressing injuries. I may fall asleep at my desk. Or perhaps, in a hurry to reach my computers to provide assistance, I might stumble, fall, and cause irreparable damage to my legs. The stale air in the building may make my cold worse. I could go on…

"…Now, I _would_ much rather prefer to go someplace else where I can get some meaningful rest without worry of a life hanging over my shoulders, but unless you tell me where I'm going, I am not getting in this car. If you want me to trust you, you need to drop the cloak-and-dagger."

Reese sighed, bowing his head. He had pushed too hard to make it a surprise for Finch and it backfired in his face. "You're right. I'm sorry. We're going to a park."

"A park," Finch repeated.

"The fresh air will do you good, Harold."

Finch frowned, but settled into the car anyways. "Who are we meeting?"

Reese glanced over at him as he pulled out into traffic. "Who says we're meeting someone?"

"I have a _cane_ , Mr. Reese. You and I are both painfully aware that I am in no position to take up the meandering trails of any park in this city. I am also in no mood for games."

"You'll like this one. I promise."

Finch huffed, not bothering to hide from Reese how frustrated he was becoming with the entire situation. Finally, he looked over out of the corner of his eye, resigned. "…Alright, what is this game called?"

Reese smirked, "Guess Who."

* * *

**SUBJECT IDENTIFIED: BAXTER, HENRY.**

**MONITORING CELL PHONE: 917-XXX-XXXX.**

**DIALING…**

**CALL CONNECTED: 212-XXX-XXXX.**

" _Higgs."_

" _Marone's making his last hit tonight. You know what to do."_


	6. Chapter 6

_06/06/2012 13:27_

**NYPD 8** **TH** **PRCT**

**INTERROGATION RM 2 REAR CAM**

"You know," Carter began, "This would be a whole lot easier for you if you just admitted why you were going down the freeway at what – double the speed limit?"

The big man at the other end of the table crossed his arms and just glared at her.

"Okay, so you don't want to talk about that? How about enlightening us to why you and your friends were shooting up Battery Park two days ago?"

She waited a moment for him to answer, but he just glared at her, or perhaps the wall directly past her. "Look, you help us, and maybe we can make a deal. Shorten up your stay in here."

The man still didn't make any move to answer, but turned towards the door when it opened.

"Here," said Detective Kane, "I got this. Your partner's waiting for you outside."

"What, Fusco?" Carter frowned, "What's going on?"

Kane shrugged, "He said you were called in to a crime scene. I can take care of things here so you can go."

"I don't…" Carter began, but paused. Fusco wouldn't wait for her if a call came in. They weren't joined at the hip; he would just go and either fill her in on the details later, or just work the case himself. Besides he knew where she was, why didn't he just come and get her instead of sending Kane? But if he was persistent about waiting, it must be important. "Well, alright. You familiar with the case?"

Kane snorted, "Sure. Seems pretty open-and-shut if you ask me. You go, I'll finish up here."

"Thanks."

She walked uneasily back to her desk, unsure of just what she would find there. Was Fusco lazy, and waiting for her so he wouldn't have to investigate a homicide alone? Was he in trouble? Oh, she really hoped Fusco just wasn't trying to get her attention because there was another government agent at her desk.

She shook her head, dismissing the notion. If that were the case, Kane would have said Agent Donnelly was waiting, or whoever the next CIA drone was who came by looking for information on Agent Snow. Or they would have just found her themselves.

When she rounded the corner, all she saw was Fusco, at his desk, doing what looked like paperwork. He glanced up once she approached, dropped his reading glasses carelessly onto a stack of reports and beckoned her out of the precinct.

"What's going on, Fusco? Kane said we got a call."

Fusco shrugged. "You could say that." He led her to his car and opened the driver's side door.

Carter looked around for a moment before getting in. "Well, did we or didn't we? You got me while I was interrogating a suspect."

Fusco glanced over at her before starting the car. "Mr. Kneecaps wanted me to go get you."

"Uh huh…" Carter said slowly. "Why didn't he just call me?"

"He's preoccupied taking care of Glasses."

"Oh. _Oh,_ don't tell me he's got another name for us. We didn't even finish helping that banker guy yet."

"You could say that."

Carter groaned.

* * *

The past twenty minutes flew by like a blur, as if he was on a train watching the scenery zoom past the windows. He was in the Library, but then Reese came inside and ended up ushering him out into the car. He wasn't sure where he had wanted to go. Today was certainly strange. Every place he seemed to want to go to lost its appeal after a few minutes. He had long since given up trying to get information out of his partner. Reese was clearly enjoying being cryptic, despite the fact that he was knowingly getting on his boss's last nerves.

He rubbed the silver-knobbed handle of his walking stick around his left palm. They were going to a park, to meet someone who was not Detective Carter or Detective Fusco. He realized now that he should have been more instructive in his conditioning. He didn't want the two detectives to sit around with him, so Reese obviously found someone else. Why didn't he just say from the start that he didn't want any company? Why didn't he just say that he wanted to heal by himself, the way he always did?

Finch glanced over at Reese. He had never seen him so focused on driving, but that was probably so he wouldn't give any so-called "surprise" details away. "Mr. Reese," he said softly, pleadingly. " _Please_."

He watched Reese spare a glance in his direction. "We're almost there, Harold."

Finch closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them, he turned back in his seat and gazed out the window. Frowning, he twisted back around and peered into the backseat.

"If you don't mind me asking, why do you have three brand new prepaid cell phones?"

"Well, I can't guarantee that you'll be able to set me up with a new phone if I break this one while you're out of the Library."

Finch blinked, as if doing so would clear his puzzlement. "But you have _three_."

Reese shrugged, pulling the car into a somewhat-legal parking space on the edge of the park. "Just stockpiling them for when I'll need them."

Finch looked out the windshield. "Who did you say we were meeting?"

"I didn't," said Reese, leaning back in his seat. He glanced at his watch. "Ready to go?"

Finch grimaced; after all of Reese's beating-around-the-bush this morning, he really didn't want to go anywhere. "Ready to go _where_? Can't whoever it is you're going to thrust me upon for the next day or two just come here?"

"I don't know, I'll see." Reese stepped out of the car, leaning against the side of the vehicle as he pulled out his phone.

Finch watched him for a minute, and then leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes against the sun beating on the car. A few seconds later, he reopened them, scanning the area around the car for any familiar faces. While mid-sweep, his eyes locked onto the security camera on the nearest light post.

Reese climbed back into the car and glanced over to see Finch tapping away at his phone. "What are you doing?"

"Taking precautions. So is your mystery friend coming or not?"

Reese shrugged, "He's almost here."

Satisfied that he was no longer on the nearby cameras, he twisted back around in his seat. "Oh, so he's a he? That only narrows down about four million potential babysitters in this city."

"I don't know why you think I'm just dumping you in some poor guy's arms for the day."

Finch glared at his partner, "I don't know what to think anymore, Mr. Reese. What I want is to be left alone, it is the _only_ request I believe I've made since I've returned to New York, and you are not only quite persistent in denying it, but keep _insisting_ I need to be watched."

Reese rubbed at his temples again, then got out, walked around the car and opened Finch's door. "I'm not doing this to put you over the edge, Finch. As you've rightfully pointed out several times, I need to look after Jason Marone. But I also need to look after you too. Now I can't be in two places at once, but you can bet I will do anything I can to make sure you don't have a repeat of this morning."

Finch sighed, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and then slowly heaved himself out of the car to look at Reese without overexerting his neck. "Mr. Reese, I'm tired. I want to go home. Now, I know you don't know _where_ that is, so instead please take me back to the Library so I can heal. _Alone_."

Reese looked around them at the other park-goers. "You won't let me entrust you to anyone, huh?"

" _No_."

Reese pointed off to the right. "What about him?"

Finch turned and froze in surprise on the spot.

* * *

"We're meeting him in the park?" asked Carter.

Fusco parked and pulled the keys out of the ignition. "Yep."

Carter eyed her partner suspiciously. "Do you know what this is about, Fusco?"

He got out of the car, slammed the door, and waited for her to join him. Leading her down the path, he shrugged. "Yeah…, no. Maybe. Seriously, with these two, who the hell knows anymore?"

They walked down the paved path. Despite it being the middle of a workday, the park was fairly crowded.

"This is weird," said Fusco, after a minute or two of silence.

Carter glanced over at him. "What is? That we're pretty much playing hooky from the department?"

"No, well, I guess. I was gonna say that we're gonna meet Mr. Happy in broad daylight. Doesn't he strike you as the kind of guy to only come out at night or sneak up behind you in the shadows?"

"Well, yeah," said Carter, "And he does that too, but it's not like he's Batman."

Fusco snorted.

Carter paused for a moment. "You don't think he's in trouble again, do you?"

"Who d'you think is in trouble? Mr. Happy?"

Carter shook her head. "No, Finch."

"You're not thinking straight," laughed Fusco, "If he was in trouble again, Reese would have gone into the precinct and pulled us out himself. Not to mention that if the Little Guy was in trouble again so soon half of New York would be kneecapped and on fire."

Carter chuckled. "I guess you're right." As they rounded the curve, Carter could see an illegally parked car against the curb, with two men in suits inside. "That looks like them," she said, pointing.

Fusco nodded, then stopped abruptly, grabbed Carter by her upper arm and tugged her slightly off the path, out of sight from the car. "Wait a minute."

Carter looked over at him, "What's with you?"

"He's supposed to get rid of Finch before we meet with him." He pulled out his cell phone and sent Reese a text.

From their vantage point, they could see Reese get out of the car and talk to someone on the phone. Reese pulled the phone from his ear for a moment, glanced at the screen, and then replaced it and kept talking.

"So you're saying we're gonna have a team meeting and keep secrets from the guy who can hack and listen in on us whenever he wants. Yeah, I can see this going over _real_ well." Carter shook her head. "I see a million ways this can go wrong."

"Yeah, well, Reese was supposed to find a way to distract him."

Reese tapped on his phone for a moment before getting back into the car. Carter looked over as Fusco's phone screen lit up.

**WAIT FOR FINCH TO LEAVE.**

She sighed, and turned back to see Reese exit the car again and walk around to the passenger side. After a moment, Finch slowly exited the vehicle and out of the corner of her eye saw a cab pull up nearby.

"Damn, he looks horrible," Fusco muttered under his breath. He turned to his partner, "You ever see him with a cane before?"

"He probably feels a lot worse than he looks, but no, this is the first time I've ever seen him with one."

"Who's the kid?" she asked, as a younger, slightly scruffy-looking man got out of the cab and pulled Finch into a tight embrace. "You ever see him before, Fusco?"

"Eh…yea, that's uh…Ingram, I think."

Carter turned back to Fusco. "Ingram? As in Nathan Ingram?"

"Yeah, it's his son."

"Huh. You know, with the money Finch seems to have, knowing Ingram doesn't surprise me at all." She shook her head slightly and then turned to her partner. "How do you know him?"

Fusco shook his head and took a step back to make sure he really couldn't be seen. "I don't know him. Couple of months ago, Reese had me tail his boss. Guess he was suspicious about something, or just plain nosy. Anyways, the kid and Finch have some sort of relationship."

Carter crossed her arms across her chest. "Huh."

* * *

Of all of the people Reese could have chosen to entrust him to, he couldn't tell if he was relieved or terrified to see Will. It was probably a mixture of both. He had so many questions. How long had his surrogate nephew been in the city? How or when did Reese plot this reunion? And more importantly, was Will aware of Alicia Corwin's death? Would he try to keep investigating into IFT? He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answers.

When Will let go of him, he took a sweeping glance around the park, trying to hide his paranoia by appearing to look for any more familiar faces. This wasn't smart. They were too out in the open, too vulnerable. What if she had tracked him out of the Library? Not that Will knew anything about the Machine – and if he could manage it, the boy would _never_ find out – but what if she went after him anyways? Would she use Will to draw him out? And if she did, would she then expose him to all of the information she had dug up? He wasn't quite sure just _how_ she had found out about Nathan, but that didn't matter. If Will ever found out, he would not only be a bundle of confused and angry emotions, but would also be in serious danger, and sending him overseas on various medical jobs may no longer be enough to keep him safe.

Finally, he forced the uneasy thoughts to the back of his mind and turned back to his nephew, giving as much of a genuine smile as he could.

"It's good to see you again, Will," said Finch, keeping his voice as calm and normal as possible.

Will smiled, giving Finch a quick look over. "I've been worried about you, Uncle Harold. Where have you been all this time?"

Finch peered at Reese out of the corner of his eye. Apparently the ex-op hadn't told Will about his time away. Good. "I'll explain everything when we get home."

"Sure, sure," Will nodded, "Do you want to head to the loft, or go back to your place?"

Finch grimaced, "I don't know, Will. The loft has a bit too many stairs for me to handle today."

Will looked down at the cane. " _Oh_. Sorry, I didn't even notice you had it with you. Totally understandable, I wouldn't have offered it if I knew you weren't up to it. I've got the cab waiting, so let's head back to your place and you can tell me about what's been going on. I guess you have some stories to tell me."

"I'm sure you have some as well," said Finch, and he turned to face Reese. "I trust you arranged this all with our…associates?"

Reese nodded, "No one will bother you unless you call first."

Finch slowly nodded and limped off towards the cab.

Will made to take a step and follow, but stopped and turned back to Reese. "Is he alright?"

Reese shrugged, "He just needs rest. It's been an exhausting couple of days."

Will nodded. "Okay. Thanks for looking out for him while he was out of town."

"No problem. Just make sure he eats, and if _anything_ happens, you let me know."

Will turned to glance at Finch before looking back at Reese. "Will do."

Reese watched them get into the cab and pull out into the growing city traffic before reaching for his phone and sending another text to Fusco. He gave the area another sweep before sitting back into the car. Massaging his forehead with one hand, he drummed the fingers on the other against the steering wheel until the backseat doors opened, admitting Detectives Carter and Fusco.

"Okay, what's this about, John?" Carter crossed her arms across her chest. "It's so great that you keep me in the same loop as Fusco here."

She gave Fusco one of her most annoyed looks. He shrugged, holding his hands up defensively.

Reese ignored them both and reached across the seat, pulling the prepaid phones out the bag. "I know you were watching from behind the bushes, so I won't go into details about why Finch isn't here. The three of us are going to save – or stop – Mr. Marone."

Carter looked at Fusco incredulously. "You couldn't just tell me this in the precinct?"

Reese twisted around to look into the backseat. "Take the batteries out of your phones. That includes the burner we gave you, Carter." He waited for them to do so before handing them each a new prepaid cell. "Now, I promised Finch we wouldn't bother him while he recovers, but we can't take the chance of him getting curious to what we're up to. While we work the rest of this case, you need to disable your normal phones. Use these."

"How long are we supposed to do this, John?" Carter shook her head, "We're cops. What if we get called to an actual crime scene? Someone's going to notice if both of us aren't answering our phones."

"I took care of it," said Reese, "You both have the afternoon and tomorrow off."

The two cops looked at each other and they could each tell that the other was thinking the same thing: whether or not to ask just how that convenience came about.

Reese handed Carter a photo. "Marone's grudgingly part of a gang that doesn't like witnesses. They're making him take out this woman. They _think_ she's the person who _might_ have seen them commit a crime. She lives on the edge of Washington Square Park; address is on the back. As far as we know, Marone has up until tomorrow night to take her out. I need you two to go and take her to a safe house. Whatever happens, keep her safe and don't let Finch find out what you're up to."

"What are you gonna do?" asked Fusco.

"I'm going to take care of the gang."

"I still don't get it, John. There's something you're not telling us," said Carter.

Reese gave both of them hard, icy looks. "A few weeks before he was kidnapped, Finch tried to work a case without me, claiming that the person we needed to save had issues that were…close to home for me." He focused solely on Carter. "You know how well _that_ turned out.

"Right now Finch needs to recoup without having to worry about work. Call it a twist of fate or dumb luck, but this case just became personal for him. If he gets wind of what's going on, he's likely to do something rash. And we all know what he's capable of when he's acting on impulse."

Carter swallowed uneasily and looked at her partner. Memories of him taking down cellular networks and kidnapping infants were only the immediate things that came to mind.

"…While that may really help us," Reese continued, "Finch isn't in a condition to do much of anything. The three of us are more than capable of helping Marone get his life back on track."

* * *

"So your assistant Mr. Reese said you were in a car accident?" Will asked, sitting across from him. After a quiet cab ride where he had never seen Harold so tired and distracted looking, he almost had to help him up the few steps into the brownstone. Luckily, Harold didn't seem ready to keel over until he had gotten to the wingback chair in the corner. Having not been totally oblivious to his uncle's pained strides; he had immediately pushed the footstool over to give his knees some relief.

Finch nodded, "I decided to put in some of my accumulated vacation time and just take two weeks away from the office. It wasn't nearly as enjoyable as I would have hoped."

"Were you seriously hurt? I mean, I know your leg is bothering you, but I see some bandages here and there."

Finch shook his head, "Mostly scratches. I did see a doctor while I was gone; she said there wasn't anything too serious to worry about it. Though, if this knee doesn't turn its behavior around, I'm supposed to get it looked at again."

"Oh. 'Cuz I was really worried about you, Uncle Harold. I mean, I had stopped by your place for the past few days and I'm sure your receptionist was ready to quit if I called her again asking about you, but to me you had dropped off the face of the Earth!"

Finch smiled apologetically, "I'm sorry, Will. I had no idea you were back in New York, if I did, I would have called. When did you get home?"

"A few days ago, I think," said Will, leaning back in his seat. "Maybe the 31st or so. It hasn't been a week, I don't think."

"How was Sudan? That's where you went off to back in February, wasn't it?"

Will nodded. "I was there doing some hospital work, but after about a month I transferred out to do some disaster relief in South America. I met a lot of interesting people, and had some great experiences, but for now it's great to be home again."

Finch leaned back in the armchair, resettling against the pillow Will had placed against the back. "It's great that you're home, Will. Any idea how long you plan on staying this time?"

Will shrugged. "I haven't decided yet. I suppose it depends when the next job comes in. But for now, I think I'll stick around for at least a little while." He watched Finch shift around a bit. "Are you sure you're alright, Uncle Harold?"

"I'm fine," said Finch reassuringly, "Just getting comfortable." He glanced down when his stomach gave an unnecessarily loud rumble.

"And a little hungry," Will laughed, "I can go out and grab something if you want and bring it back. That little Chinese place on the corner is still there, isn't it?" He got up and went towards the door. "Any preferences?"

"The usual, I suppose."

Will nodded. "Alright. Do you want me to get anything else for you? Something to do, a book to read while I'm gone?"

Finch shook his head, "Will, you're only going to be gone for what, twenty minutes? I'd like to think I can manage until you get back."

The minute Will was down the front steps and on his way, Finch rose stiffly to his feet and made his way to the opposite corner of the townhouse where his computer sat on the desk in the small library/study, dropping slowly into the office chair with a groan. After logging into the system, he began running diagnostics on the firewalls, while giving quick glances towards the front windows about every minute, as if he was expecting her to have tracked him down on his way home. She got in once today. He would do anything and everything he could to make sure it didn't happen again.

He was engrossed so deeply in his task that he didn't hear Will return until the boy was almost on top of him. Thankfully Will was facing the other side of the desk and he had time to close out most of the windows on his screen.

"Ready to eat?"

"Yes, sorry. I didn't even hear you return."

Will held up the bag. "There's enough room here at your desk if you don't want to get up."

Finch fixed him a pointed look.

Will nodded, conceding. "Or we can go to the kitchen." He noticed Finch didn't object to him offering his arm like he first did the first weeks after his accident. He must be hurting, he thought, but didn't say anything on their way to the table.

When Finch settled into a chair, he began unloading the bag. "I got you some soup to go with your lunch. It'll help clear out your nose at least, and hopefully help along the rest of your cold."

"You didn't have to go through the trouble, Will. It's nearly gone."

"Well, a little soup never hurt anyone."

They ate in silence for a few moments before Finch slowly put down his chopsticks. "Will," he began, "You don't have to do this."

Will raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"If Mr. Reese put you up to this –"

"No, no!" Will shook his head. "To be honest, I was glad Mr. Reese at least left his name with your office so I could get in touch with you! I know you didn't mean to have me freak out like that, but I'm happy to look after you. It's the least I could do since every time I come home from overseas you take care of me."

"I know, but I just wouldn't want you to spend your time on break from being a doctor by…well… being a doctor."

Will laughed, "Really, Uncle Harold, it's no problem at all."

"If you insist," Finch sighed. "So, did you do anything enjoyable since you've been back?"

"A few things. I met a new friend in the park a few times. Saw a show way off of Broadway. And…found out someone I knew was murdered."

Finch choked on his rice, bringing his hand against his throat as he tried to either cough it up or swallow. _Please, please, please, anything but that_.

Will jumped up and rubbed his hand across Finch's back. "Easy there, Uncle Harold."

Finch held up his hand as he finally swallowed the pesky grain, and downed half of his water glass. "Thank you, Will…I think I'm alright now. You just…surprised me with that last statement."

"It was kind of random," Will sat back down again, "But it was just something that came to mind. You remember Alicia Corwin?"

Finch was grateful he wasn't eating anything anymore. He had to put his hands in his lap so Will wouldn't see them start shaking. "The…the name sounds familiar, but I don't think I've met her."

Will shook his head, "Probably not. She was one of Dad's contacts? The one that moved to West Virginia."

Finch forced himself to nod. "Oh, that's right. I think you spoke to her not too long ago."

Will nodded. "Yea, about IFT and stuff. It was right before I went off to Sudan. … I can't believe she's dead, and that it was here in New York. I mean, I thought she would have gone back to West Virginia after I met her. Guess she stuck around."

He wrung his hands together under the table and forced himself to keep his voice under control. "Did you find out what happened to her?"

Will shrugged, pushing an empty food carton into the middle of the table. "Sort of. They found her body a couple of weeks ago at some old water treatment plant. Apparently she was shot. I don't think the police found out who did it yet. It's just a weird place for a body to show up..."

_No, Will, no! Please, let it be!_ He quickly glanced down at his leg. The subject needed to change, to get Will off course before he ever gets the thought to look into her death himself. He needed to make a quick distraction. Thinking back to many horrible decisions he made since his accident, he quickly jerked his leg out and kicked the chair next to him, sending the nerves in his knee reeling. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped it tightly.

"Uncle Harold?" Will shot up and knelt down to be at eye level. "What's wrong?"

"Just a… spasm," Finch said.

"Will looked around worriedly. "Do you have pain meds around someplace?"

"They're in the medicine cabinets, but –."

Will cut him off, and looked back towards the front of the townhouse. "Upstairs or downstairs?"

"Both, but –."

Will jumped up and tore down the hall, returning no more than thirty seconds later and placing two small white pills next to Finch's water glass.

Finch looked at them, but didn't make a move to take them. "I really don't think–"

"Take the pills, Uncle Harold. _Please_." He waited for him to swallow before helping him get up and situated back in the living room. "Has this happened before? Do you get these spasms often?"

"It's not the first time," Finch said tiredly, as Will pushed over the footstool, "But they don't come often, and they don't last long. I'll be fine in a few minutes."

Will looked at him skeptically, "Are you sure? I don't have a problem taking you to the hospital to get it checked out."

"Will," Finch put a hand on his nephew's arm. "It's alright. I'll be fine."

Will stood there frozen, eyes locked on Finch's for a long minute before he nodded, giving a soft "okay" before sitting on the nearest chair. "So…when I came back with the food I saw you beating your keyboard to death. I didn't know you could type _that_ fast."

"I know, you're so used to me pecking each key one at a time," said Finch, leaning back. "One of the IT boys at the office was teaching me how to type properly after he fixed my computer...or set it up...or something."

Will nodded. "Ah, okay. I didn't even know you had a computer in your office. I always pegged you for a pen-and-paper sort of guy."

"Well, normally I would be, since computers are all Greek to me," said Finch, lying through his teeth. "But I figured I might as well _try_ to keep up with all the young tech wizards out there. I have to admit, though, while I _would_ rather handle all of the claims and documents physically on paper, filling out reports is a little faster on the computer, and we're saving paper in the office by going digital."

"So in other words," Will grinned, "You have a computer on your desk so you're not the only caveman in the building."

Finch pretended to mull it over, and then nodded. "I suppose when you put it that way…."

It wasn't until much later when the throbbing in his knee finally went away, did Finch realize he should have just faked his hasty distraction instead of putting himself through all that agony.

* * *

Jason gave another nervous glance to his watch. In another hour he would have to call home and tell his wife he had to work late at the office, even though he hadn't stepped through the doors at all today. He hoped she wouldn't ask too many questions. This was the second time this week that he had to say he was working late, when in reality he had to play lookout for one of Henry Baxter's jobs. He didn't like the work at all – who would? – but at the time it was all he could do in a pinch to save his apartment. There was no way he could tell Sophia that he messed up an important client's account and was subsequently demoted down a notch at the bank, or that the cut in his pay meant that they would be more cautious of their spending without giving her an explanation why, or that the rent had skyrocketed to the point where they needed help in staying afloat. And there was absolutely no way he could tell her that to cover the funds, he had to take a loan from a less trustworthy source to avoid a credit check, and in order to pay back on the money he was forced to commit various felonies, and now a murder.

He fidgeted in his seat on the park bench, and then pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through the photos he had been sent, all of a pretty redhead painting in the park. Two of the photos showed her laughing with a slightly scruffy-looking guy.

Jason smiled sadly at the photos. Whoever this woman is, she's happy, full of life. Who was he to have to rob her of it, especially since the odds are that she didn't do a thing wrong?

But what if he could confront her before the rest of Baxter's gang caused him any more trouble? He was supposed to get rid of her by tomorrow night. What if he found her now, confronted her about the situation, and got her to leave town for the next few days until everything blew over? No more death, and then he would be free from his short stint in crime!

Jason shook his head. No, that wouldn't work. They would figure out something was up and find her. They'd find him too. He found it very unlikely that he was going to get out of this as cleanly as Baxter described, but what else was he to do? If he couldn't repay the loan, then not only would he owe money and favors to a loan shark and gangster, but assuming he lived past tomorrow, his family would get evicted from the apartment….

He swiped past the final photo of his target, and his heart sank when he saw his wife and son smiling up at him. He stared at it for a few moments longer before his trembling hand reached down and felt for the small gun concealed in his inner jacket pocket. Sighing, he rose from the bench, put the photo of the redhead back on his phone and began his slow stroll through the park to find out just where the poor woman lived.

_I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…_.


	7. Chapter 7

_06/06/2012 17:26_

He woke to an aching back and the distant sound of fingers on a keyboard. Odd, he thought; he vaguely remembered waking to this kind of scenario before, only that time he had been dreaming.

Was he dreaming now? Perhaps she was going to walk into the living room, pull a chair right up to the side of the couch he was stretched out upon, and drill him once more while he had little energy to move. It certainly wouldn't be the first time she had done something like that.

Shifting to sit up, he put on his glasses and glanced at the clock on the wall. He had been asleep nearly three hours. Not enough to feel completely rested, but for now, it would do. Perhaps tonight he would be able to get a good full night's rest.

He quietly reached for his cane, propped up against the end table, and strained to hear the sounds of the person typing away in the next room. The soft keyboard clicks didn't seem to go fast enough for it to be Root. Surely she wouldn't change her typing speed to confuse him, so that must be Will. He sighed in relief; he wasn't dreaming this time.

Finch rose slowly to his feet and limped into the kitchen, where Will had set up his laptop. "What are you working on, Will?"

"Hey Uncle Harold. I'm just emailing a friend. I hope you don't mind that I went out and got my computer while you were taking your nap. I would have asked to use yours, but you've got a password on it and I didn't have the heart to wake you up to ask what it was."

"It's alright, I don't mind you bringing some things over," said Finch. He sat down at the end of the table. The extreme pounding in his knee from earlier had gone, and in its place remained the persistent throb from the past few days. "If you're going to be here a while, then I'd want you to have something to do so you're not twiddling your thumbs all day."

Will finished sending his message, and then closed the lid on his computer. "How was your nap?"

"As good as can be, I'd imagine. The couch was as comfortable as could be expected."

Will grimaced, "Back hurt?"

Finch held up his hand dismissively, "It'll pass soon enough. Later, I'll make the effort to sleep upstairs."

Will nodded and his eyes caught the time lit up on the oven. "Say, Uncle Harold…" Will began slowly, "A few days ago I agreed to get together with some friends, but –"

"-But you didn't plan on being with me today and now you don't want to leave?" Finch finished for him.

Will cringed. "You're not upset, are you?"

Finch sighed. " _Will_ , if you already made plans, then by all means, go! Don't let me hold you up. I wouldn't want you to miss out on seeing your friends. I see no reason why you shouldn't go."

"Are you sure? I mean, I can always reschedule…"

"Will, please," Finch gave him a pointed look, "Don't let me monopolize your time, especially when you're rarely stateside as it is. Go out and socialize. I'd like to think I'll be fine for an evening."

* * *

Carter sighed, looking out the window of the cruiser towards the row of brick townhouses facing the park. After sharing what she knew about Baxter's gang with Reese (which, as it turned out, wasn't much at all), he had left to scout out the gang, leaving her and her partner to track down their mystery woman. She had turned her phone back on once, to call Taylor and say she was working late on a stakeout and her phone would be off.

"What about your kid, Fusco? You got to let him know you're going to be late tonight?"

"Nah, my ex has Lee this week. I won't see him till Saturday."

They had sat in silence since, all the way through the city until they reached the edge of Washington Square Park. When they parked at the end of the block, she leaned back in her seat. Until John sent over the address of the safe house they were supposed to take this woman to, there was nothing to do but wait. She really didn't want to spend the time in silence.

After a minute of them idling at the curb, she turned to her partner. "You said John made you follow Finch around?"

Fusco sighed heavily. "Yep. Came outta nowhere, too. One day he just calls up and says he has a job for me to do, and that was it. Tried to tail him around the city, and you wouldn't believe it, but Mr. Vocabulary sure knows how to disappear. You'd think a small guy like him with a limp walking down the street would be easy to spot. Weeks go by and I can't even figure out where he lives. It was mostly a waste of time, if you ask me. But that whole scenario is where I saw him with Ingram's kid. Suppose Reese saw the kid at some point too, since he turned me into playing private investigator."

"Wait, so Finch never went to the place we took him to?"

Fusco shrugged, "Hell, maybe, but he gave me the slip so many times I couldn't keep track. I've never seen him go there."

"Huh." Carter chuckled for a moment, and then looked at the photograph in her hands. "Did this 'Grace Hendricks' ever come up in your little investigation?"

Fusco shook his head. "I'm just as confused as you are."

They both looked at each other as a soft buzz filled the interior of the cruiser. "That you or me?" said Fusco, digging in his pockets.

"I think it's both of us."

Carter got her burner phone out first. "Looks like John sent the address and the security code for the safe house."

Fusco pulled the keys out of the ignition and opened the door. "Alright, let's get this over with." He pulled a copy of the grainy surveillance photo from his pocket and heaved himself out of the car.

"There are a million ways this can go wrong," said Carter worriedly.

"You can say that again," Fusco muttered. "So whatever it is we're getting our asses into…let's not screw it up."

They walked down the row of homes and then through a gate and up a set of front steps. Neither of them noticed the person on the bench across the street, hidden by the shadow of the trees and bushes, snapping pictures of them.

* * *

_05/30/2012 20:51_

_Root stormed up the basement stairs. How could any one person be so damn evasive all of the time? First it was the silence, and then he turned the questions around on her. It was surprising how someone so woozy from drugs could avoid interrogations. Perhaps after all of those injections he had built up a resistance to the stuff._

_She sighed. If he continued to be difficult, she would have to resort to her contingency plan; but that involved taking him nearer to DC, and she wanted to avoid his Machine catching one or both of them under its numerous eyes. It had been bad enough that Harold continued to find sneaky little ways to contact his friends. The last thing she needed was to learn that his Machine could do it (and_ was _doing it) too. If that were the case, she would have to hole him up in West Virginia, and she hadn't been in the mood to venture into what some believed to be the technologically barren part of the country. How there could still be areas of the United States today without wi-fi and cell phones she would never know…_

_Root sighed, paused at the top step and took a look around the dimly lit stairwell; the only light was coming through the doorway to the rest of the house. The abandoned home was a last minute hideaway, a little gem squirreled away off the beaten path in South Carolina. She hadn't expected John and his detective friends to have gotten on their trail as quick as they did. Especially not after the run-around she made the last time. Thankfully, the lack of technology – and especially electricity, assured that Harold couldn't get another message out to his friend from here. Of course, the reason they had to come here in the first place was because Reese had closed in on them. Thankfully, the odds John tracked them here were slim, but she wasn't about to take chances. Tomorrow, she and Josef would take Harold somewhere with electricity and running water. The lack of things to do – or to try and force Harold to do – was driving her up the wall._

_She shook away the visible anger on her face before leaving the steps and joined Josef in the kitchen._

" _No luck?"_

_Root glared at him. "Is it that obvious?"_

" _You don't hide disappointment well. You also stomped up the steps but took two minutes to walk through the door. You're trying to calm yourself. Doesn't seem to be working."_

_She plopped down on one of the rickety chairs. "Why are you even bothering to clean that thing?"_

_Josef glanced at her before he returned to his work. "Keeping busy."_

" _It would be a lot easier if the sun was still up, don't you think? I would think it's hard to see what's clean and what's not by candlelight, no matter how many sticks you set out."_

_Josef shrugged. "You don't let me use it, so if it was clean yesterday, then it should be clean now."_

_Root pointed a finger angrily at him, "And with good reason. It's hard enough to keep moving him every few days as it is, drugged or not. Shooting him will only worsen things, and I'll bet you anything he still won't tell me what I want to know even if he was bleeding out his last pints. He's too righteously stubborn."_

" _Speaking of…" Josef put down his rag and looked her straight in the eye, "When do I get my money? We had a deal."_

 _Root nodded, "And we still do. You get the funds to pay off those loans you_ really _should have gotten at a respectable institution – but didn't, and in return, you assist me with Harold."_

" _It's been two weeks."_

" _It has," said Root, "And he's smart. We just have to be smarter. I just haven't found the right angle just yet, and I really can't risk taking him to the cities anymore, not after what happened in North Carolina."_

_Josef clicked the gun back in place. "Why don't you let me talk to him. I'll bring him around. Everyone has a price."_

_Root snorted. "You can't bribe Harold. You haven't got the money, and I can assure you, he doesn't need a penny of it."_

_Josef smirked, "I can become_ very _convincing."_

_Root studied him for a moment. "Perhaps I've been with him for too long. A fresh head might do some good…Well, I'm going to go to bed, so try if you'd like. Just remember that we're leaving in the morning for someplace more…civilized so don't stay up too late." She got up, grabbed her phone from the table and began to walk off._

_Root turned back after a few steps "And_ no guns _."_

* * *

"What if she's not home?" Carter whispered.

"Then we're in trouble," Fusco whispered back, "And Mr. Happy won't live up to his name. He'll just drag our asses across the city till we find her."

"Wait, I think someone's coming," said Carter.

Fusco wrinkled his brow and turned completely to look at his partner. "Why the hell are we whispering?"

The door opened, and to their relief, the same woman from the photos answered it. "Can I help you?"

Carter glanced at Fusco before pulling out her badge. "Ms. Hendricks? I'm Detective Carter, NYPD. This is Detective Fusco."

Grace's shoulders slumped slightly as she looked at them, confused. "Oh my, not again."

Fusco frowned, "Have officers come by before?"

Grace nodded, "One, a few weeks ago, on a disturbance call, but I didn't contact the police, so it must have been someone playing tricks." She paused, and then looked at them, concerned. "That is why you're here, isn't it? I don't know who's doing this to me, but I want you to know I haven't encouraged them."

"Ma'am, we're not here for that. Do you mind if we come in?"

"No, not at all," she said hesitantly, but stepped aside to admit them.

She led them into the living room, where her easel was set up in front of the window. "Sorry for the mess, I wasn't expecting company."

"It's quite alright," said Carter, "We'll try to make this as brief as possible."

Fusco held onto the surveillance photo. "We're investigating the Pearl Street incidents. Are you familiar with the murders?"

Grace gestured for them to sit before doing so herself. "Um…I read about them somewhere. Online, I think. But that's about it."

"Were you ever anywhere near the two crime scenes?" asked Carter, "June 4th, especially?"

"June 4th?" Grace shook her head, "Couldn't have been. I was doing a painting class with children at the library." She glanced at Carter, and then at Fusco, "Why?"

"We have reason to believe there was a witness to the June 4th incident," said Fusco. He passed the image to her. "We have a photo from the crime scene. Is this you?"

Grace held the photo for a long minute, studying the woman in the grainy picture. "It certainly looks similar, but I can't be the only redhead in the city. I assure you, I was nowhere near Pearl Street on June 4th. I'm certain of it."

Fusco sighed, and took the photo back.

"Ms. Hendricks," said Carter, "We have an undercover working in the gang. It turns out these guys are not too bright, and they think you witnessed them murdering someone."

Grace's eyes widened, " _What_?"

"…If you'll permit us," said Carter, waiting for Grace to return her attention to her, "While we continue to search for the real witness, we'd like to move you to a safe house at least until we can get these guys off the street."

Grace took a deep breath, swallowed, and took another breath. "Is…is it that serious?"

Fusco nodded, "We think it is. Our inside tip said they had photos of you." He nodded to the easel. "Do you paint often in the park?"

Grace nodded slowly. "Usually, when the weather's nice…is that how they guessed that the woman in the photo was me?"

"We believe so," said Carter, "Which is why we'd like to move you to a safe house as soon as possible."

"How…how long am I supposed to be away?" Grace asked, clasping her hands in her lap. "I mean, I have deadlines…"

"Hard to say," said Fusco, "But we're working as hard as we can to get this under control as soon as possible." Carter began to open her mouth to dispute the statement, but stopped. If Reese was right and this was a personal mission, they would be _lucky_ if the gang members were found by the NYPD in the morning with both knees intact. He was probably out there looking and shooting up the streets now.

Grace nodded, looking down at her lap. After a few minutes, she looked back up, smiling weakly at the two detectives. "And…you're _certain_ those people think that's me?"

Carter nodded. "Believe us, Ms. Hendricks, we wouldn't have troubled you with the information if we truly didn't believe your life was in danger."

"We really shouldn't linger," said Fusco. He glanced toward the window. The sun would start setting soon, and if the gang members were going to start prowling the neighborhood tonight, they would have to get a move on before any of them spot the cruiser and become suspicious.

Grace shook her head, trying to grasp the detectives' words. "W-where did you say I'd be going?"

"The NYPD has several safe houses around the city. We'd be taking you to one of them until things cool off," said Carter. _Though, after looking at the place we took those Dons to, I'll bet this one will be a hell of a nicer…_.

"Oh," Grace said quietly. "Can I go – that is – um, is it alright if I pack a bag for the night?"

"Of course," said Carter.

Grace nodded slowly, and then looked towards the stairs by the front door. "I'll just be a few minutes."

Fusco watched her disappear, and then leaned back into the sofa cushions and looked around. "You think she did all these?" he asked, gesturing to the various paintings on the walls.

"Probably," said Carter.

"It's a nice place she has here. Don't see how a starving artist affords it."

Carter shrugged, "Contract work probably pays more than we think it does."

"Must be." He looked out the window, then back around at the end table.

Carter fished her phone out of her pocket after feeling it vibrate. "John wants to know when we get out of here," she said, reading through the text. "I guess he's going to wait here for them to show up."

"I would've thought he would have the gang down for the count by now," said Fusco.

"I guess not. You know, I still don't understand it, Fusco," Carter sighed. "What's so special about her that's got John all in a funk?" When she didn't get a response, she turned back to see her partner standing at the edge of the table, holding a framed photograph in his hands. "Fusco?"

"I don't believe it," he muttered under his breath. He turned the photo so Carter could see it. "Never would have guessed…"

The glasses were different, and the smile was off-putting from how she knew him, but there was no doubt in Carter's mind to who the man in the photo was.

They were both so engrossed in the photograph that they didn't hear Grace walk up beside them.

"I think I'm ready."

Carter jumped slightly, and handed her the photo. "Right, sorry. We were just admiring your picture."

Grace took the photo back, and gazed at it lovingly before looking around the rest of the room. "Do you think those people are going to come here?"

"We're going to have an officer sit on the house, just to be safe," said Fusco. "He'll arrive just after we leave."

Grace nodded shaking slightly. She looked at the photograph again before placing it carefully in her bag.

* * *

Reese looked up and down the street carefully before letting himself into the townhouse. It was odd, in a way. The last time he was here, he had thought he had finally uncovered where Finch lived. At the time, he wasn't too sure as to what exactly he would find. A fiancé was the last thing he had expected. She had invited him in, sort of, and he had learned something new and emotionally touching about Finch that day. In the end, he was sort of right. Finch had lived at this address, only in the past and not in the present. Close, but not close enough.

He stood in the entryway and looked around without entering any of the rooms. It felt strange. He knew, of course, that he would search the whole house and make sure there were no gang members hiding in wait for Grace to return. But Finch had lived here, and while he hadn't stepped foot in his fiancé's home for two years, it still felt like an invasion of privacy. What else could he learn about his boss from things that were squirreled away around the house? How long had he tried to investigate more about his mysterious employer and turned up nothing…and now so many secrets were available to him, and all he had to do was look around.

Reese shook his head, clearing out those thoughts. As much as he wanted to, it wasn't right to pry. Finch had his privacy violated enough the past few weeks without knowing that the two detectives were up on probably his most precious secret outside of the Machine, and it would be wrong to snoop through Grace's belongings as well. She wasn't a suspect; she wasn't even someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Machine hadn't pulled her number, so he had no legitimate reason to see what sorts of things might have gotten her into trouble. So if there was anything to learn about his boss here, it wouldn't be through looking through desk drawers or closets or even the trash.

Gun ready, he started to move through the house. There were pencils and brushes all over her workroom, with some unfinished sketches on her easel at the window. Perhaps she was working on them when Carter and Fusco arrived. In the corner was a computer with two monitors connected. It looked like something Finch would have rigged up, assuming that the Finch that Grace remembered was a computer whiz. Curious, he jolted the mouse and the screens came to life, full of various images of beaches and coastal landscapes. She probably uses the extra screen to help look for inspiration, he thought.

He moved on through the rest of the first floor and then moved up the steps, looking behind every door and around every corner.

Certain no one else was in the house; he returned downstairs and entered the living room. He turned on a few lights to give the illusion someone was home, sat down on the couch, and began to wait.

* * *

Finch rose stiffly from the chair in the kitchen and tried to stretch his sore muscles. He twisted around and looked at his cell phone on the table. It was a bit odd to not hear Reese in his ear or over the speakers in the Library.

Part of him was curious to how Reese was handling their Number. Did he finish up already? What if the Machine pointed him to someone else in need of help? Should he check up on him?

…The other part of him wanted to ignore Reese completely. Reese had assured him that everything would be under control. Besides, he seemed to have a knack for calling when Reese was in the middle of something important. He really didn't want to get in the way.

Slowly, he limped across the kitchen to make himself some tea before returning to the living room. A cup of tea and a good book would content him for a while, at least long enough for Will to return. While he didn't require his nephew to be on hand all the time like a live-in aid, he was certain that he wasn't going to get upstairs to bed tonight without assistance. After napping on the couch for the afternoon and dealing with the stiffness that resulted from the few hours of sleep, he wasn't going to chance an all-nighter there.

Finch was almost to the sink when he felt, or more precisely _heard_ a crack from his knee. He was used to the sound. After sitting still and stiff for long periods of time at his computer stations, he was used to his bones cracking when he tried to ease and loosen his joints a bit. But he had never heard one so loud before.

He didn't have long to dwell before his knee immediately buckled. The cane dropped to the floor with a clatter as he hopped half a step and clutched the edge of the countertop tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white. He waited a moment for the spasm to subside before stubbornly putting the pain to the back of his mind and made his way nearer to where he stored the tea, keeping one hand gripped onto the countertop as he went.

Finch didn't move while the water boiled, opting to lean against the counter and wait. It seemed a safer idea than going back to the table, until he realized that the cabinet housing his various mugs and tea cups were on the other side of the kitchen. So much for staying still…

He was on his way back to the stove, mug in hand, when the second and much more violent spasm hit.

* * *

_5/31/2012 6:14_

_She knew something was wrong when she got to the bottom of the basement steps. When she had left Harold the night before, he was tied down in the nicest chair she could find in their dump of a last-minute hideout. She was normally a heavy sleeper, and couldn't afford him to run off in the middle of the night, so keeping him restrained wasn't unusual._

_This morning, she left the door at the top of the stairs open so she could at least see a little bit without using her phone as a flashlight. When she got to the bottom and looked around, her eyes widened in shock and all she could do was just take in the scene._

_Unlike leaving the rest of the forgotten items in the basement undisturbed, the dark room resembled a warzone. She spotted Harold's chair tipped over in the middle of the room, rushed forward, and immediately felt a mix of relief and confusion when she realized he was no longer stuck to it. Could he have managed to escape in the middle of the night? No, she thought, that wasn't right. Josef was down here last, and he would never let Harold escape, especially since he believed to be assisted financially at the end of their little adventure. So where was he?_

_It was when she turned her head to the right when she saw his glasses on the dirty floor. Well, she thought worriedly, that ruled out any possibility of him sneaking out last night. She didn't have to look much further to see him slumped on his side in the crook of a space between the wall and an overturned bench. It was an odd place to try and settle down to sleep, but after taking in the shape of the room, she doubted he nodded off there by choice._

_Root shook her head furiously. Earlier in the day, in front of an old set of computer monitors, he had been fine and after bringing him here and failing to get any additional headway (which, after thinking about it, was probably her fault since he was still out of it from travel), he was still fine. He was annoyed, angry, and uncooperative, but generally healthy, not unconscious across the room like someone had thrown him around like a ragdoll._

_She knelt down and shoved the bench aside, giving herself more room to get a look at him. His wrists and ankles were tied. She frowned and looked back at the overturned chair in the middle of the floor. She had tied him down with his arms and legs at each of the chair limbs. How did he end up like this?_

" _Harold?" she said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder and gently shaking it. She remembered from their brief times spent in hotel rooms that he was a fairly light sleeper, assuming all of those sedatives were out of his system. Normally he was already awake when she would go near him, or other times she would just put the needle in his neck and that would get him up. Today, however, she wanted him to eat something before they moved onward. She really underestimated how stubborn he could be, and was beginning to worry about his constant refusal to eat. He barely touched any of the food she handed him yesterday, so she was determined to get something down his throat, even if was only one apple slice._

_After a moment knelt beside him, she grew quite worried when he didn't stir. Something wasn't right. She quickly reached over him and began to undo the knots on his wrists. They – and the bindings on his ankles – were tighter than anything she could manage. It was all so confusing – why would Josef set him free only to restrain him again? Or did Harold find a way out and get caught?_

_Root watched him begin to stir as she released his legs and eased him onto his back. Quickly, she reached behind her and grabbed his glasses off of the floor, wiped the lenses on hem of her shirt, and placed them on his nose before he opened his eyes._

_When he did open them and attempt to sit up, to her horror she watched his eyes squeeze shut again, he let out a pained cry, and attempted to curl in on himself as he reached down toward his bad leg. The fact that he didn't bother to hide his pain from her like he usually did, not to mention bending his back past tolerable levels, spoke volumes._

" _Harold?" She tried to straighten him back out when he raised a shaky hand and tried pushing her away._

" _What…" he said through clenched teeth, "did you_ do _?"_

_She took his and put it down. "Harold, please."_

_He opened his eyes and glared at her in the dark, and she felt her heart sink a bit. Did he really think she would harm him, when she had treated him so kindly for the past two weeks?_

" _Go away._ Please _."_

" _No," she said quietly, "I'm going to help you."_

" _Your_ help _is what got me into this mess."_

_She sighed. This wasn't really the time to argue over the trivial things. "Come on, Harold," she said, and carefully pulled him to up to sit against the wall, and didn't miss the quiet groan he let out. "Let's get you upstairs where I can look at you properly."_

_She watched him lean his head back to the wall and draw his other leg closer when she moved forward. "Are you going to kick me, Harold?"_

" _I would certainly like to."_

_She shrugged, "I'm sure you would. But if you tried, I'd only hold your legs down, maybe even sit on them, and at this moment, I don't think you really want that."_

" _What I want," he said angrily, wincing, "Is for you to leave me alone."_

" _Yes, well, we have a long day ahead of us, and it really doesn't involve sitting down here in this mess, so do you want to go up and get something to eat? I'll let you crash on the couch?"_

" _I'm not hungry."_

_Root rubbed at her eyes irritably. "Okay, Harold. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."_

_He just sat there, glaring at her._

" _Easy way, you let me help you up the stairs, I can look at your leg, and we'll move forward from there. Hard way, I drag you up the steps, which won't be easy for me or for you. Now, I know you don't like me. I kidnapped you. I forced you against your will to follow me around on adventure you had no intent on participating in. You're angry, and bitter and fighting back in the only way that won't get innocent people hurt. Okay, fine. You want to blame me for this? Sure. But you didn't deserve_ this _, so if that needs ice and a wrap, I will ice it and wrap it. Like it or not, I am going to help you."_

_She raised an eyebrow and waited._

_He glared at her another moment before looking away shifting his leg back down._

" _Come on, Harold. Call it a truce, even for just this morning? No interrogations, no harm, just help. I swear."_

 _She sighed again at his lack of response. "Alright…look. We've been in each other's company for two weeks now. How many times have I tried to seriously and intentionally harm you, hm? None. Now, how many times have I shown genuine kindness in response to your needs? How about when I saved you from the street gang you ran into after your little escape a few days ago? Or how about when I got you relief for your knees at the hotel in Virginia? I could easily have locked you in a shed in the middle of nowhere and worked from there. But I didn't. I_ wanted _you to be comfortable. I'm your friend here, Harold, not your enemy."_

" _The last time I checked," Finch said coldly, "Friends don't kidnap each other."_

 _She waved her arms, exasperated. "Sometimes we have to go to extremes to get our points across. I'm going to haul you up those steps one way or another, so it would be a lot less painful on you_ and _me if you'd just man up."_

… _She didn't miss the short pained hiss of breath he gave out halfway up the steps or the small gasp when she accidentally knocked him into the doorframe. By the time she was able to deposit him on the faded sofa, he looked more tired and worn out than she had ever seen him. His eyes were squeezed shut and she could tell he was trying to keep his breathing calm and even, but it didn't seem to be working too well for him._

_She looked around the old sitting room quickly, and grabbed as many decorative pillows as she could to support his aching frame. It was only when she tried to check out his knee did she have to rear her head back to avoid his other knee jerks upwards for a collision._

" _Harold!" she scolded, "Do I have to tie you down?"_

_His hands were balled into tight fists at his side, and his eyes were still closed, but she was able to make out the slight shake of his head._

_She smiled and patted his hand gently. "Good. Now stop being so stubborn, and let me take a look!"_

_Her head jerked upwards as she heard a car pull up through the gravel driveway. She quickly got to her feet and peered out the window. There was no way John could have found them already…right? She quickly sighed when the driver came into view. It was only Josef._

_Root took her hand off of her back pocket where her gun was hiding and walked back to the couch. Grabbing a small chair, she dragged it over and sat down._

" _Well, Harold, your knee doesn't look swollen, at least not yet, and I'm not feeling any fractures. So whatever you're feeling should die off soon enough." She paused a moment, and then touched his hand again. "So what happened downstairs? Did you try to get out last night?"_

_He opened his eyes again, sighed heavily, and moved his hand out from under hers and draped it over his chest instead. "I thought… this wasn't an interrogation."_

" _Is_ that _what you think I'm doing?" she asked, surprised. "This isn't an interrogation. I'm just trying to figure out what happened."_

_He shifted on the couch, and she didn't miss the hitch in his breath as he tried, unsuccessfully, to turn away from her. "Why are you doing this?"_

" _Why am I doing this?" she blinked, "Because I want to know what happened. I warned you what would happen if you tried to get away, so if that's what you tried to do, you should be punished…although, I think you're punished enough for now. And if this happened through some other means, then_ that _person deserves to be held responsible. This isn't to make a point. I genuinely care about you, even if you don't see that. I may seem…ruthless to you in trying to get you to open up to me, but even I know that beating you into a pulp isn't the way to get what I want."_

_He grimaced as he resettled again. The couch was old and past its prime. Despite it being much more comfortable than the old chair in the basement, it couldn't be doing any wonders for his neck and back._

_He glared at her for another moment before turning away to face the back of the sofa. "I was in that room, with the computers, and the next thing I could recall I was on the floor. Now_ please _,_ leave me alone _."_

_Root furrowed her brow. That couldn't be right. Harold hadn't been in front of a monitor in almost a day. They had only taken refuge in this old place late yesterday afternoon. Was he still in a hazy daze last night that he couldn't remember their little chat, or arriving here at all?_

_She frowned and looked away towards the window. Josef was on his way inside._

_Josef…he was the last person to go see Harold. She left him upright in the chair. If Harold spoke the truth and he didn't try to get out, that meant that Josef let him out. But why would he do that, and then go through the trouble to tie him back up?_

_Root patted his shoulder gently before getting up. "Take it easy for a few minutes, Harold. My friend and I need to have a little chat before we get things going today."_

* * *

Will sprinted down the block and up the brownstone steps. How could he have been so careless? He made a note of the bar to meet his friends on his phone, and then conveniently left it at Harold's house. So much for being on time….

"It's just me, Uncle Harold," he called as he closed the door behind him and began to look about the living room. The darn thing had to be around somewhere. Perhaps they'll call to ask where he is and he'll find the device by its ringtone…

Oh, wait. That wouldn't work. The ringer was on silent, he thought, mentally scolding himself. He turned off the sound when Harold fell asleep.

He was peering around the end table in the corner when he heard a crash and a thud come out of the kitchen.

Will froze. "Uncle Harold?" He began to move slowly into the kitchen, looking around carefully. His eyes caught his cell phone beside his laptop on the table, and he surged forward when he saw Harold's cane on the floor between the table and the cabinets. From the table, there was no sign of his uncle, but when he picked up the cane, he could see shattered mug fragments on the floor around the corner of the island cabinets.

Will quickly twisted around towards the table, reached for his cell phone, and crawled around the island. "Oh my god - _Uncle Harold_!"

* * *

Aside from a lone car idling at the other end of the block, the street was empty. The gun in his pocket felt heavier and heavier with each move he made toward the row of townhouses. This was it. After tonight – assuming he made it past tonight – he would be a murderer, and for what, to save his apartment? His pride?

Jason paused in front of the little gate at the short walk to the front steps. The light was on in the house and he could see someone moving around inside. It was now or never. If he didn't do this, it would only be a matter of time before the rest of Baxter's gang learned that he chickened out. The lady inside would be dead, and so would he, when they finally caught up with him.

He gritted his teeth – whatever happens here, he deserves it. He was the one who went to Baxter in the first place for the funds, instead of just telling Sofia the truth. So what if they had to find a new apartment, or cut down on their spending? They really didn't need many of the things they bought anyhow. While Sofia wouldn't be happy with his demotion at work, at least he still had his job. After messing up that account the way he did, he was lucky to not be eyeing the classifieds. …But this painter? She didn't commit any crimes. She probably didn't even witness any in her entire life, but because she was the first redhead Higgs could come across to please the boss, she had to go.

Despite how serious the situation was, he shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all. Baxter and his gang were so keen on getting rid of this person, and all the while, the real witness could be on her way to the police station, if she hadn't done so already.

His hand moved into his pocket and closed around the grip of the small handgun. There was still a chance – perhaps he could get her to flee, just for a little while. When the gang gets put away, it should be safe for her to go on with her life, wouldn't it? There would be no chance for him, Baxter was probably organizing his demise back at the bar.

It was funny, in a way. After the first job, he always thought the decision to work off his debt with the gang would come back to haunt him. He expected the police to tie him to their crimes somehow, and he would end up in prison for years. Dying by the boss's order on the night he was supposed to be let go was not it. Of course, no one came flat out and told him that Baxter wouldn't let him live past their work together, but after what had happened with the past few gang members, the track record wasn't looking to be in his favor at all.

Jason pushed the gate open and crept up to the door. _I haven't always been proud of my decisions_ , he thought as he silently tested the door handle. It was unlocked. _But I will not go down as a murderer. One way or another, I will get her out of this mess._

He hesitated a moment before slipping through the front door. He knew she was some sort of artist, so the messy workspaces didn't surprise him a bit. What did surprise him was the tall man in a suit, sitting casually on the couch with a gun aimed in his direction. What caught him off guard even more was that this stranger seemed to know who he was, even though he couldn't recall ever meeting the man.

"Hello Jason," said the man in the suit, "Let's have a little chat."


	8. Chapter 8

_06/06/2012 14:43_

A young woman walked briskly down the street, looking over her shoulder every few minutes. Pausing only to wait for the traffic to change so she could cross at the intersection, she stayed in the thick of the huddle of people waiting for the walk sign. While in a hurry, she wasn't stupid enough to brave the mass of irritated drivers that took on the city on a daily basis.

**ACCESSING 43** **rd** **ST NW CAM…**

**ACCESSING FACIAL RECOGNITION DATABASE…**

**SUBJECT IDENTIFIED: XXX-XX-5812.**

**THREAT STATUS: NON-RELEVANT TO INVESTIGATION.**

**REVIEWING ARCHIVED SECURITY FOOTAGE:** _**06/04/2012 19:34 PRL ST CAM 2.** _

**MONITORING SUBJECT.**

She repositioned the cap on her head, tucking in the red locks that had started peeking out the bottom. The light was taking an awfully long time, and while buried in the crowd, she got the feeling she was being watched, but her eyes only found the generic security camera sitting high on the traffic post. Forget this light; it would be easier to cross at the next one. After another wild look around at the people hustling past her, she quickly rounded the corner and nearly ran into two officers casually leaning against the side of their car. A takeout bag from a nearby food truck was sitting on top of their vehicle.

"Woah, there, you may want to slow down, Miss," said one of the officers, "Going around that fast you're likely to run into someone."

"Officer!" she said, slightly out of breath, "I need your help."

"What's the matter?" asked the other officer.

"I think someone is after me."

* * *

_06/06/2012 15:29_

**XXX-XX-5812 LOCATED: NYPD 8** **TH** **PRCT**

**PROBABILITY OF THREAT AT CURRENT LOCATION: LOW.**

* * *

When she checked out of the hotel and returned to her apartment, she was surprised that her cleverly-placed cameras hadn't revealed a single intruder while she was away for those two weeks. She didn't doubt that the investigation into her psychologist identity would have revealed her address, and had expected John to break in and at least have a look around, even before taking Harold on their road trip. But he didn't, and he currently had a lot more things on his plate at the moment, so she still had some time before she'd have to move out of the place. A pity; she was becoming quite fond of this apartment.

Settling down at her computer desk, she spread her recently-taken photographs out in front of her laptops. There were odd little connections to say the least. The pretty redhead was a friend of Will Ingram, if two chance meetings and the following friendly conversations were enough to consider two strangers friends. Will Ingram was Nathan's son, and Harold's old partner, so she wasn't too surprised that Harold and the kid stayed in touch. He was probably there for most of Will's life, and the two were probably as close to being family as possible. How cute.

She had watched from a _very_ safe distance as Harold was handed off to his best friend's son. For how long, she wasn't sure, and it really didn't matter. While she didn't have ears on them – John had turned his phone off, and Harold would surely be paranoid enough to keep others from tapping into his phone –, it wouldn't have been too hard to find out where they were going. She didn't follow though, at least not yet, not while something interesting was happening in John's car once Harold was out of sight. After watching John's two companions in silence for a few minutes, she had reached over for her phone to get in on the conversation, but the two detectives didn't stay long. Rather than try to tail John without being caught (she was aware of how quickly things would go south if he caught on to her, which, considering his background was more than likely to happen), she followed the detectives instead to a lovely row of brick homes on the edge of Washington Square Park.

Root settled back in her seat at the desk and picked up her picture of the detectives leaving with the same redhead from the park. She had wanted to sneak into the woman's home and see what the fuss was about, but then John showed up almost out of nowhere and went inside. If she wasn't going to go near him in the park, there was no way she would make a move towards the house.

Something was off about this whole operation. From her time poking through Harold's laptop, she was able to deduce that he and John were working another case, a fairly lousy banker named Marone. So why was John hiding out in this woman's townhouse instead of trailing his new charge like a lost puppy? As far as she could deduce, this woman never showed up in her search about Mr. Wall Street. Perhaps she would have to dig a little deeper…but first, a check-up.

She placed the photo down and reached for one of the laptops, searching for the location data and GPS signal for Will Ingram's cell phone. _Alright, Harold, where could you be hiding now?_

She didn't expect the blinking dot to hover over Mt. Sinai Hospital.

* * *

_05/31/2012 06:51_

_In the off chance he was truly faking, she walked back across the room, pulled her set of handcuffs from her bag, and hooked one of his wrists to the arm of the couch. It probably wasn't necessary considering he appeared to be asleep, and that there was no place for him to truly escape to, but better to be safe than turn around and realize he had pulled one over on her and vanished like a ghost. She waited at the edge of the room by the front door and watched him. Once every few minutes he shifted a bit, until the leg resting on the dusty pillow moved too far, and then there was a quiet groan, followed once again by silence._

_Root turned back to the window to see Josef come up the walk. The minute he walked in the door, she grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket and dragged him into the kitchen._

" _What the hell–"_

" _What happened last night?" she hissed angrily, "What did you do to him?"_

_He shrugged out of her grasp. "What are you talking about?"_

" _Last night, after I went to sleep, you went downstairs to have a_ chat _with Harold. That's what you told me you were going to do, wasn't it? Well, I went down this morning, and not only is the whole basement a complete wreck, but something – or some_ one _– harmed him."_

_Josef sighed and looked away for a moment. "Alright, alright. Calm down already. I did go down last night. I thought your friend would be more cooperative listening to someone else. When I got down there, he had already gotten free. He rushed at me, we struggled, and I had to subdue him."_

_She crossed her arms over her chest. "And I suppose in your little brawl you completely wrecked the basement?"_

" _Well, yea. That guy is small, but he put up a hell of a fight."_

" _And I guess at some point, he got away from you and made a run for the stairs?"_

" _Quick little guy, but I got him."_

_She chuckled, shaking her head for a moment before smiling back at her companion. "That's quite a tale. It's also not true. When we arrived here, Harold was unconscious. I even patted him down when we got in. So unless his wiggled out of his zip ties, getting out would have to have been a miracle. Except that it wasn't, because they were cut. Second, Harold is crippled. I certainly doubt he could give you a 'hell of a fight', and he certainly can't run. …At least, not_ now _. So come clean. I know you didn't shoot him, but that doesn't mean I won't give you the came courtesy."_

_After a few seconds, Josef huffed and rolled his eyes upward at the ceiling. "I let him out."_

_Root narrowed her eyes. "Why?"_

" _Your…'method' of interrogating the gimp wasn't working. I thought if I played good cop, he might say something."_

" _Oh," she snorted, "So you let him out just to throw him around like a ragdoll?"_

" _Alright, I roughed him a little, but –"_

"A little _?" She was surprised how much restraint she able to muster. Grabbing him by his arm, she shoved him into the adjoining room. "Do you realize how much of a mess you made down there? What the hell did you hit him with?"_

_He threw up his arms angrily, and did a small circle in the middle of the room. "It was a piece of a broken pipe, okay? And what difference does it make, anyhow? You told me not to shoot him, and I didn't."_

" _Of course I didn't want you to shoot him! Torture_ never _produces good information. You can't get anything out of Harold by making him bleed out, and especially not by beating the stuffing out of him!"_

" _Well,_ excuse me _for trying," he snapped, "We've had him for two weeks, and all of your so-called strategies weren't working. Pretending to be nice or sympathetic wasn't getting anywhere so why are you still holding onto it?"_

_Root crossed her arms over her chest._

" _Look," he said angrily, "I still don't really get what you want with him, but this has gone on long enough. Either you actually get something out of him, or I'll take him by myself. Perhaps after a few more whacks he_ will _give up whatever I want him to, and I won't need you anymore."_

" _You could," she said, "But that won't stop me from alerting the mobs, and I really don't think they will be too forgiving when they realize you're on the run because you can't pay them back. Also, unless your memory really has been buried in the ground for the past few days you would remember that Harold's more-than-capable associate is out looking for him. Now he's searching for me, but how long do you think it would take for his attention to divert from me to you, especially after he learns of how_ gently _you've handled his friend?"_

_Josef scoffed. "You're one to talk. You want to get on my case for injuring him, but who was the one who sliced his hand when he tried to escape?"_

" _It wasn't deep and it'll heal. But we can't afford to take him to a hospital, so for your sake, I sure hope you didn't permanently damage him. Because if you did, you won't need a hospital by the time I'm through. Now let's get moving."_

* * *

The waiting room outside the surgical ward was surprisingly empty. Not that he had been in hospitals stateside recently enough to know how busy they were, but he had expected to see more people huddling around the waiting rooms, waiting for news on loved ones or offering moral support to others. Perhaps it was a good thing – more people were staying relatively healthy and didn't require the hospital's services, or maybe there were plenty of staff on hand tonight to keep the waiting down. Maybe it was a mixture of both.

Will checked the time on his phone once more. He despised the waiting. Of course, he recognized that surgery couldn't be rushed, but visiting hours would be ending soon, and he really wanted to stay with his uncle for a while before leaving for the night. As much as he would like, he doubted the hospital staff would allow him to remain overnight. They didn't allow him when he had abruptly returned home following his uncle's accident and his father's death. But limited visiting hours was a hospital protocol in the ICU. Hopefully, the scenarios running in his head of what could be wrong with his surrogate uncle were much, _much_ worse than reality.

The doors to the ward opened and he quickly looked over, but sighed when a different set of doctors walked out and towards the elevators. He leaned back in the waiting room chair and tilted his head back against the wall. Normally, these chairs were uncomfortable but tolerable if they didn't have to be sat in for too long. Sitting outside a surgical ward waiting for family undergoing an operation, however, threw tolerance out the window. He had already paced the length of the room twice; he really wasn't in the mood to get up again.

Will looked down again at the phone in his hands, and then quickly shot out of his seat. "Oh, crap!" He thumbed through the recent caller list on his phone while walking towards the main lobby. "I know that number is in here somewhere…" he muttered under his breath. "There it is."

Will leaned against the wall by the gift shop and dialed. The call went straight to voicemail. He nodded impatiently at the automated voice's standard how-to response on leaving messages until finally, he heard the beep.

"Hi, uh, Mr. Reese? This is Will Ingram. I'm calling to give you a heads up about Mr. Wren…"

* * *

"So you're not going to kill me?" Jason said hesitantly from the opposite couch.

"You had good intentions," said Reese. Jason's gun sat on the table between them. He had confiscated it the moment Jason had entered the room, but it had been empty, and the troubled banker didn't have any bullets on him. "But you made some mistakes. I'm not here to correct them for you. But maybe we can get you help from some trustier sources."

Jason bowed his head. He wasn't sure how this man – who had assured him that he wasn't a cop – had found out everything that had happened to him recently, but it was a small comfort that he wasn't an executioner, for him or the woman who lived here.

"So what happens now?"

Reese sighed. "We need to track down your friends in the gang."

"What about Ms. Hendricks?"

"She's safe, and will still be so when this is all over. And you will too, once you tell me where to find Henry Baxter."

Jason looked down at his hands in his lap. "What are you going to do?"

"Make sure he doesn't harm anyone else." Reese stood up and pocketed Jason's gun.

Jason followed him around to the front door. "…If this woman wasn't the person they thought she was, then who _did_ we see the other night on Pearl Street?"

"Someone else. But while I was waiting for you to show up, I was monitoring the police band." He nodded towards the little radio sitting on the end table. "Organized crime unit is on the lookout for someone matching your pal Higgs's description."

"I don't understand," said Jason, "I was told to follow one person. If we were following the wrong woman all this time, how did this other lady know?"

"Who knows," said Reese, "Perhaps she saw more at the crime scene than you all thought she did and is now coming forward. Perhaps it's for entirely unrelated reasons that they're out chasing a member of your gang. But it may also be possible that Baxter doesn't trust you to get the job done."

"He said this would be my last job; and that I'd be let go after this."

A car pulled up near the front of the house. Reese peered through a crack in the curtain. "Well, it looks like they meant it, but not in the way you thought." He grabbed Jason by the arm and began hauling him towards the back door in the kitchen.

"W-where are we going?"

"Your friends made my job of searching for them a lot easier, but we need to move. You may have come here without any bullets, but I bet your pals won't have given you that courtesy, and I'd like to keep you in one piece tonight. Let's go."

They made it to the next block, where Reese laid eyes on a car half-hidden in the shadows of a large tree.

"Is this your car?" Jason asked nervously, looking up and down the street, as if Higgs or Baxter was going to suddenly appear and put a hole in his chest. How did he not see this coming?

"It is now. Get in."

Reese finished hotwiring the car just as the first gunshot fired.

* * *

"Mr. Ingram?"

Will quickly looked over. He had been so intently focused on one door that he didn't even notice the doctor coming out of the other at the opposite end of the room. Jumping up, he met the surgeon halfway. "How is he?"

"Mr. Wren is going to be fine. We're moving him to a room right now, and then you can see him. But if you don't mind, I have some questions. Hopefully you have the answers to them."

Will nodded, "Alright."

"I assume you're aware of Mr. Wren's prior injuries…?" The doctor waited for him to nod before continuing. "It appeared that one of the plates in his knee had become damaged, probably in the car accident you spoke about before. We fixed it, but we'll have to monitor his recovery in the upcoming weeks to see if this will have any adverse effects on his mobility. Does he currently use a cane or any sort of walking aid?"

Will shook his head. "He had a cane right after the accident, and during his physical therapy. But recently, he's only used it when his leg bothers him the most. I know he prefers not to carry it if he doesn't have to."

The doctor nodded. "I see. When he wakes up, we may have to have a talk about that. Now, did he say anything else about his recent car accident?"

"I don't think so," said Will, "I mean, he said he had those minor cuts under the bandages, but the only thing that seemed wrong was his knee."

"Mr. Ingram, please excuse me if this seems a bit forward, but was Mr. Wren in some sort of trouble?"

Will wrinkled his brow. "What kind of trouble?"

* * *

_06/06/2012 18:30_

To the detectives' relief, the journey to the safe house was without incident. Detective Fusco had begun to run various scenarios in his mind of how to tell Reese if they failed to get and maintain Ms. Hendricks's safety. Luckily he didn't have to worry about those thoughts just yet, because he still hadn't found the right words that wouldn't get his ass shot.

The safe house turned out to be a penthouse apartment in a narrow luxury high-rise building. The numeric keypad lock would have looked out of place amongst all of the other keyholes in the building, had they gone through any of the other hallways in the complex. Thankfully, they didn't have to – the penthouse took the entirety of the top floor, and the elevator went straight up without any stops.

"Here we are," said Detective Carter as she typed in the entry code, "Just give us a minute to check the place over."

Grace hugged her bag close to her side as she ventured into the spacious apartment and looked around from the entryway. From what she could see, the furniture looked high-end, and the décor was simple. The place was clean and uncluttered. She turned back to Carter as the door latched shut and the heavy mechanical lock from the keypad loudly clicked, a feeling of dread suddenly washing over her. "Y-you have to check the apartment? I thought this was a safe house."

Fusco caught onto her fear almost immediately. Even though he had only been in her company for only a few minutes, she seemed like a very gentle sort of person. Other than whatever strange goings on that mixed her up with Finch, she probably never had something as serious as this happen to her before. Then again, he doubted there were many people who could say they got onto a gang's hit list by _not_ being involved with said gang. During the car ride over, he had kept an eye on her through the rearview mirror, and he could tell that the situation may have officially gotten to her. She seemed to emulate a mixture of confusion and fear, and he didn't miss her trembling slightly when they pulled into the parking garage. "It's just a precaution, Ms. Hendricks. This gang that we're dealing with may not be the brightest bulbs in the box, but we're not taking any chances that they found out where we were going."

"Oh," she said quietly. "Do you think that they will?"

"Like we said, we have an insider," said Carter, "So we'll be prepared if they do."

Grace looked back towards the door as the two detectives carefully swept the place. For what, she wasn't entirely sure. This was a haven used by the police department, wasn't it? She couldn't fathom why they would have to check over what should already be a safe place to hide. The door seemed to be pretty secure; unless someone had the access code, she really couldn't see how anyone would be able to break in without resorting to blowing it off the hinges. She sighed quietly and moved to the couch. Perhaps they picked up on how nervous she was, she thought, and that was why they were giving the apartment a look over. In any case, the extra feeling of security was slightly more reassuring.

"You know what I think…" Fusco muttered to his partner as they walked into the kitchen.

"What?"

"I think this place beats the loft where we stashed the Dons by a long shot."

Carter snorted and looked around. "You think? I mean, come on. The fridge is even stocked. Who has the money to burn to keep the place well kept on the off chance that someone will show up here."

Fusco shrugged. "Finch, obviously." He glanced back towards the doorway. "You don't think he lives here, do you?"

Carter shook her head. "Doubt it, I looked in the bedrooms. No clothes anywhere. I mean, I bet he didn't go back to the brownstone we were in too often, but there were at least things around to show that _someone_ inhabited the place. This one though, it seems a waste to pay to keep food around if no one seems to live here."

"Yea, this can't be where Four Eyes lives. No tech for him to work his magic anywhere. But who knows," said Fusco, "Maybe they help more people than we think they do. Perhaps they fling all their cases that they don't dump on us here until the heat dies off."

Carter shrugged. "Maybe."

They found Grace on the far corner of the couch in the living room. "Everything's fine," said Fusco.

Grace nodded slowly, taking another sweeping gaze around the room.

"If you get hungry, there's food in the kitchen," said Carter, pointing behind her to the next room.

"Thanks. You know, I've never been in a safe house before…but I didn't expect the NYPD to have such nice ones," said Grace, rubbing her hand along the sofa cushion, "On TV they're these little generic houses or apartments in nondescript neighborhoods. This is so…fancy."

Carter glanced at Fusco. "They're usually not so…luxurious. This one was given to the NYPD from a wealthy donor. The owner of the penthouse maintains the place."

"It's lovely," said Grace, "But I can't help but think that the person who _did_ see the gang should be here, and not me."

"We're doing everything we can to get her to safety as well," said Carter, "But even though you didn't do anything wrong, you're still in the same amount of danger. We're just trying to prevent a homicide."

"But what about your actual witness? Is she under police protection too?"

_Damn, I hope so,_ Fusco thought, and stole a quick glance at Carter, "We've got a different team keeping an eye on her."

Grace looked down at her bag and drew it closer to her chest. "These people…they won't come looking here, will they?"

"The odds are slim," said Carter, "And considering the lock on the door, the chances of them getting past _that_ is worse. Like we said, these guys aren't very bright, but that doesn't make them any less dangerous."

* * *

Will slowly turned the key to his uncle's condo. He didn't expect the doctor to allow him to stay with Harold for the night, but supposedly a sizeable donation Harold had made some time ago, along with a few favors, allowed for some leeway in requests. Perhaps the private room tucked away in a new wing of the building was part of his donation. He also suspected the suspicions the doctor shared concerning some of his uncle's injuries may have played a part in letting him stay overnight.

He looked around the living room and his eyes fell on an oversized throw blanket that was folded on the corner of the couch. It would come in handy if he fell asleep in the hospital, although the chairs they kept in the patient rooms could hardly be considered comfortable enough to sleep in. Maybe if he grabbed a pillow and pushed a few chairs together it would work out….

It felt odd to go looking through his uncle's belongings, but after gathering some items for Harold's stay – he was sure the books would keep him occupied until he was released – Will returned downstairs and placed his gathered items on Harold's desk while he went looking for a bag big enough to hold everything.

Eventually, he found a small duffel bag in the hall closet. As he tucked a second blanket into the bag, he ended up nudging the mouse, kicking the computer monitor to life.

Will paused. He had forgotten that Harold had been working on something when he was out getting their lunch, but considering the day that his uncle had following lunch, he probably hadn't returned to his desk since.

He walked around to turn off the computer. There was no way of knowing when Harold would be released from the hospital, and while he was no tech wizard, it probably wasn't a good idea to keep the computer on for days. When he sat down at the desk and grabbed the mouse, the lines of running code made him do a double-take.

"Woah – what the hell is all this?"

* * *

"You hear anything yet?" asked Fusco.

"Nothing," Carter sighed, "It's been hours already." She looked over at her phone, sitting silently on the coffee table. "You know, it's great and all that John gave us special phones to use for this, but if we can't use our normal ones, then it's a bit hard to keep up with the rest of the world. What if the other detectives needed to get into contact? What about Lee, or Taylor? Keeping information from Finch seems pointless if he's already being preoccupied by someone or something else."

Fusco shrugged. "Sometimes it's better to just smile and nod, you know?"

Carter huffed, "I don't like being kept in the dark, Fusco. There's something going on here that John isn't telling us." She nodded towards Grace's bag, where the photo of her and Harold poked out from the top of the tote. "Like that, for instance."

Fusco twisted around to look. "Whatever's going on, we're not supposed to be in the know, or Wonderboy would have said so."

She rolled her eyes. "Coming from the person who was spying on him for how long?" Carter sighed. "Why does it seem like I'm the only person kept in the dark around here?"

"You're just special, Carter," he said as their phones began to buzz on the table. Fusco reached for his and flipped it open to reveal a single line of text.

**WITNESS STATION.**

"Witness made it to the precinct."

"Good," Carter breathed a sigh of relief. "Maybe that means this night will be over sooner rather than later." She looked over as Grace walked back into the room, a mug of tea cradled in her hands as she perched back on the corner of the couch.

Carter gave her a small smile. "How are you holding up?"

"Alright, I think," said Grace softly, "Has there been any word yet?"

Carter shook her head. "I'm afraid not. But we got word from our insider that someone had come forward to the police with information about Baxter's gang, so at least our mystery witness seems to be safe as well."

Grace nodded. "That's a relief."

Fusco pulled out his phone. "We should have asked earlier, but were you expecting any company tonight?"

Grace looked at him, puzzled. "No, why?"

"More along the lines of if someone may call or stop by and wonder where you were. Is there anyone you may need to contact, like family or friends?"

"Oh," she shook her head. "No. I spend most of my time alone, drawing. The closest I've come to friends were kind strangers in the park that stopped by while I was working. I've gotten to know a bunch of regular joggers here and there, but I'm not really close with them, although they are very lovely people."

Grace pulled the photograph out of the top of her bag and turned it towards the detectives. "The only family I truly had left was my fiancé, Harold."

"Would you like us to try and make contact with him, let him know you're alright?" asked Carter. There was no mistaking in her eyes that the man she knew as Finch was in the photograph, and she knew Reese didn't want them to make contact with him, but she couldn't help but go through the comforting sort of phrases that were drilled into her head since obtaining her badge. But something was eating away in the pit of her stomach. When Grace said that Harold _was_ the only family she had left….

Grace smiled sadly and closed her eyes. "You can't," she said softly, and gripped the picture tightly. "I lost him two years ago."

* * *

The scrubs didn't fit all that well, but for the short amount of time she would be in them, it would do. No one paid her any mind as she walked down the hall to the nurses' station in the middle of the floor, a standard-looking get well basket in her hands. The patient list chart was hanging on a hook behind the desk. No one was in sight.

She quickly scanned the list of names. At first, she began to grow doubts that Harold Wren had even been admitted, but there – she found his name listed all the way at the end of the hall, in a private room, recovering from some sort of knee surgery.

A lump formed in her throat. Had he really been hurt _that_ badly?

Placing the chart back down, she moved towards the end of the hall and knocked before entering the patient's room.

He was asleep, thankfully, propped up in the bed. A thick navy blanket was draped over him that most certainly wasn't hospital issue. It took her a moment for her eyes to adjust in the darkened room to notice that poor Harry wasn't alone. Will Ingram was slouched over across several chairs he had pushed together to form a makeshift couch, with a pillow and blanket of his own.

He began to wake from the light through the open door hitting his eyelids.

"Oh," he said, "Do you need to do another check-up?"

"No," she smiled, "I'm just here to deliver this." She placed the small flower basket on the table next to the bed. "Looks like Mr. Wren's office sent him a get-well gift. They must really miss him."

"Ah, okay," he yawned, "Thanks. I'm sure Uncle Harold will appreciate it once he wakes up." He looked at her carefully. "Are you one of the regular nurses here? I think someone else was in earlier."

"No," she said, "I work down in the pharmacy. The flowers somehow ended up there by mistake, and since I was doing a delivery run, I thought I'd bring these where they were supposed to go."

Will nodded, "Okay, cool. Looks like you lost your name badge though. I know the directors here are a little uptight about uniform, so I hope you haven't lost it."

"Hm?" She looked down and laughed. "Oh, no, I need a new badge clip, so I keep my tag in my pocket. My name's Sam. Sam Groves." She smiled nervously. "Well, I better get back there. I hope I didn't interrupt your nap."

Will shook his head. "Not at all. Good night."

He began to resettle just a few minutes after Sam from the pharmacy left. Once he began to nod off again, the door opened and another woman in scrubs walked in.

"Sorry for the lights, Mr. Ingram," said the woman, "I'm just here to check up on Harold. And it looks like someone left him flowers! That's sweet."

"Yea. Sam from the pharmacy downstairs just brought them up."

The nurse frowned. "I don't think we have a Sam in the pharmacy."

"Really?" said Will, "She said her name is Sam Groves. She was delivering meds a little while ago."

"That's really weird. Arnold was just up here delivering medications to this floor not ten minutes ago. Oh well. Maybe they forgot some. Sam's probably new anyways. I think we hired a few new techs last week. I probably just haven't met her yet."

He waited for the nurse to finish her check before scooting his chair closer to Harold. Something about the surgeon's words continued to bug him.

Will took another look at his uncle. He was still out from the surgery, but the doctor had assured him he would be sleeping off the medication for a while. The bandages that were originally on Harold's wrists were gone, revealing very distinct bruises.

"Where did you get these, Uncle Harold?" he asked softly, picking up one of his hands and closely inspecting the marks. "Those look like rope burns…."

Will sighed and gently put his arm back against the blanket. _Perhaps the surgeon was on the right track. These bruises wouldn't come from a car accident,_ he said to himself. _Something isn't adding up, and I'm going to find out what._


End file.
